Hit and Run
by JMK758
Summary: Lt. Cmdr. Gilbert Kingman was killed in an automobile accident... wasn't he?
1. Everything Changes

This is my 41st NCIS Mystery, the First story of my Fifth Season. Belisarius Productions owns 'NCIS'.  
The usual legal Disclaimers about making money and taking characters apply. All places and character names are fictional and do not refer to any person living or dead, nor to where they live or work. I only own Rev. Siobhan (O'Mallory) McGee, Apprentice Pathologist Dr. Samantha (Sammy) Sky, Special Agents Kevin Lamb, Lisa DuBois, Janet Levy and other original characters. You can find all my stories listed in order in my Profile.  
This story opens on the Tuesday following Labor Day, more than two weeks after Tony DiNozzo was announced as the new SAIC of the Pensacola Field Office and he and his fiancé Jeanne Benoit had moved to Florida.  
Rated R or NCis-17  
Please Review.

Hit and Run  
by JMK758  
Chapter One  
Everything Changes

Rev. Siobhan McGee leans into the elevator's rear corner and hangs her head, presses every part of her body to limp relaxation, grateful for the few moments silence and solitude. Held up by the walls, she lets the red curtain of her hair tunnel her vision to the dark grey floor and gives serious consideration to dozing right here in the car rather than push the button.

She hadn't ever thought she would miss her albatross, the coke bottle glasses that she'd been saddled with for more than two decades. When she'd had them, when it became this difficult to see, she'd only had to take them off and wipe the lenses. 'What if I were to…? No.' That thought's a little too disgusting.

As it is she cannot control the blinking that's her dead giveaway of fatigue or worse, and she has long ago given up any attempt to argue her attentiveness with Timmy. The more tired she is, the faster and more frequently she blinks so even if she cannot see the instants of darkness she cannot defend or protest against them either.

And Timmy has her nailed each and every time; he needs one glance to start sending her to bed - where this time she truly wants to go.

But while her hair is parted out of the way she does reach up behind her neck and undoes the stud that binds the stiff white collar, pulls the symbol off and undoes the top button that chokes her. At least now her head hangs more comfortably.

She considers pushing off from the corner and pressing the button by the door and realizes, in that portion of her brain that's not snoring, that she (1) has to do it anyway before someone else boards or calls from another floor and (2) the sooner she does it the sooner she can bring life to her mental picture of propping her knees against the foot of the queen bed, hollering 'timber!' and leaving Timmy to drag her up the rest of the way.

Come to think of it, she doesn't care if he does it or not.

x

Because she has to, because a mature adult would do so rather than be caught snoring upright in an elevator car, she raises her left arm to under the red tunnel and almost focuses on her watch. The luminous dials tell her nothing except that the short one is too far to the right of upright. Monday crossed into Tuesday before she started north to Silver Spring but thank God that except for her duties at Enkiss she doesn't have a set schedule on Tuesdays.

There have been times when she's wondered if anything is set in Enkiss, and these past two weeks have sharpened that wonder.

With a sigh of defeat, or accession to the inevitable, she arches her back, pushes off the wall and steps forward to push the 3, knowing so well that the one thing she will never miss is the DC / Silver Spring commute.

As of the day after tomorrow, from Saint Mary the Virgin to Dupont Circle, she can virtually leave her desk and fall into the new apartment.

x

When she opens the apartment door and steps inside it's to too many lights on in the living room at the end of the short hall and in the kitchen to her left and Sarah McGee pushing a newspaper wrapped something into a box on the half counter that separates both rooms.

"Ha-huh-what?" The surprise is enough to push quite a bit of the fugue from her brain. "Sarah?" She'd actually stepped past her before she'd registered the younger woman.

Somewhat more awake now - all the way up to one third - she steps left and back around the counter to hug her sister-in-law. " _Hi_. How _are_ you?"

"Just fine."

As they pull out of the hug Siobhan senses before she sees Timmy coming from the direction of the bedroom behind her past the living room. She can fight the so revealing blinking for a bit before it gives her away but at this hour there's really no point in trying. "I didn't know you were coming over," she finishes with a partial glare to her absent-minded husband. She could not have made it in from DC any sooner, not with a Hospital Sick Call that took so very, very long, but she feels bad. She'd left from here, he knows where she was but can never know why.

x

She had spent hours this evening at Sibley Memorial with Lisa DuBois and the stay had been draining. A normal hospital visit is measured in minutes, a half hour is high but this one had spanned two hours and she is by no means certain what she has accomplished. It is only through the Grace of God that she will accomplish anything.

For all the time she has known her DuBois' manner had been described by those who know her better as 'Zen-like', unflappable, but now terms like decimated and destroyed come more readily. Where her partner Janet Levy was mercurial, Lisa was as placid as the Buddha - at least she had been. Months ago Janet had been battered by an assault of nauseating savagery but had recovered. Lisa had been shot and the effect has been a cataclysmic decline toward obliteration.

Still, it was the center of both attacks that define the difference. Janet's assault had been intimate, a horrendous sexual nightmare brutal beyond words or thought but she is recovered physically and will, with time and aid, recover in other senses. She has the potential for a normal future. Lisa, shot three times in her uterus, had been so horribly wounded that a radical hysterectomy had been the only option. It had saved her life, but had removed her purpose for living.

For Lisa her future had been defined by her motherhood. No matter what else she would be in her life, everything in her had led her toward the days when she would bring new life into being, the more the better. She'd planned a thousand different futures, everything from one to a dozen children and she would love and cherish them. Motherhood defined her, sustained her, established and guided her life; now a mother is something she will never be.

From the day she'd come out of surgery in Intensive Care and learned her empty future Lisa DuBois had stopped trying to recover from her wounds. It has been three weeks, Siobhan has seen her five times and each time the woman has slipped further away. The determined and dedicated Special Agent, the Zen-like soul, the friend, she finds less and less of that woman each time she visits.

x

"Shav? Shav?"

"Hm, Timmy, what?"

"You zoned out on us."

"Sorry. Must be tired."

"No kidding." Caught out, she cannot deny her fatigue. "But can you talk about it?"

"Timmy, you know better." She so much wants to, but with those words it's dropped.

"I was saying I stopped by to help out a bit."

Siobhan takes in the sealed and stacked cardboard boxes that sit upon the half high room divider and the empty shelves but does notice in time the sealed packs of paper plates and Styrofoam cups set in the corner. They'll have their last meal here tomorrow. Today.

The truck is coming Wednesday morning and when Timmy finishes work the day after tomorrow - after today - he'd better head for Dupont Circle and not set his mental autopilot for Silver Spring.

"I can see that. Thank you."

The younger woman checks her watch and winces. "But I didn't expect to stay so long. _Tim_."

"I'm sorry. I was in the bedroom."

The bedroom is the final room with things ready for use. The living room is a maze of stacked boxes.

"Well," Sarah grants with a shrug. "It's all good. The sooner you get out, the sooner I get in."

x

Siobhan isn't sure if her brain, which had felt like it was awake, is firing with all neurons yet. Despite her momentary focus on the failed confidential evening, there must still be cotton between some of the synapses for the best she can manage is an inelegant "Huh?"

"I spoke to the Landlord the other day," Timmy says. "Sorry, I forgot."

"You forgot." They hadn't forgotten to discuss their leaving last week.

"We arranged that Sarah will take up the lease at the same rent."

"You forgot."

"And," Sarah declares, "I can get out of that closet and into a place _with_ closets."

"You forgot." But admits it serves her right for letting Timmy handle all of the moving arrangements.

"I'm sorry. It's been a long month."

"It's been a fortnight." Her eyes really ache and to fight to keep them open makes them feel worse. That must be why she's so annoyed.

"A lot of changes going on. It's no big deal."

"It's around this point," Sarah says, "that I simply hit him."

"Thanks. I'm considering it."

"I'll hold him for you."

"Where I'm thinking about hitting him I won't need anyone to hold him."

"Okay, T.M.M.I." She correctly interprets the question in Siobhan's red eyes. "Too much married information."

"No, that's not so."

"Well, what _has_ been going on?" Sarah asks Siobhan, sounding both relieved and anxious. Few can manage the combination. "I know there are, what, _seven_ moves–"

"Eight," Tim says but she'd not talking to him, distinctly in 'Girl Talk' mode.

"Okay, eight, but how'd it happen? You know Tim, he doesn't share unless it's on a circuit diagram."

"All right," Tim says, having had enough. "I'm _Sorry_. Okay, the short story."

"You'll be sorry," Siobhan assures her.

x

"A bit over two weeks ago Tony DiNozzo, you remember him."

"Only _yeah_ ," she says in her 'I haven't been living under a rock' voice. "Special Agent Tommy, your partner, the guy who with Officer Lisa busted me in the Library, Best Man at your wedding. I _was_ there."

"Got promoted to SAIC, that's Special Agent-in-Charge, of Pensacola, proposed to Jeanne Benoit and last week moved with his new fiancé to Florida. That's the first two moves. Immediately before he did, he gave Shav and I an envelope and made us swear not to open it for four days, until after Service that Sunday.

"He sublet us his Condo apartment in Dupont Circle at the same mortgage/rent as we're paying here but with the size of the rooms it's twice the space."

"Super generous." Her tone says 'I know all this. Get to the part I don't know'.

"Actually, since he still owns it, I'll tell you the story of that later, so _if_ Florida doesn't work out he always has a place, but that's not gonna happen, his Florida deal is too sweet, when he finished moving out we started moving in. Wednesday's the final big bulk. That's number three.

"In the meantime, since he offered Special Agent Tina Larsen a job taking over the Document Analysis Section in Pensacola, she made it known her house in Rosemont near Alexandria was available. She left yesterday. Number four. Special Agent Michelle Palmer, who has been campaigning for months for her and Jimmy Palmer, our Deputy Medical Examiner, to move out of their cul-de-sac Georgetown apartment, had snatched it up weeks ago. Ten rooms, she could even designate one her Sanctum Sanctorum for her Wiccan work but I'm not getting into that; two stories, two car garage, picket fence and yard, it was too sweet for a couple with a baby on the way to let slip. That's five."

"Is the baby going to be a witch?"

"I am _really_ not getting into that. Anyway, Special Agent Susan Grady, from Polygraph, has been trying for months to get _into_ a quiet place and away from the baby factory as she calls her thin walled apartment house, so she made a deal with the Palmers and their landlord and between the lot of them, the Larsens, the Palmers and Grady, they did a three way with a Pensacola tangent, sort of like you, we and Tony are doing. So that's six."

"And I make seven."

"Okay." At this point what's one more in the count?

"You NCISers sure have your own ways of doing things."

"Enkissers," Siobhan suggests.

"Enkissers." She looks to her big brother with a smirk. "Does sound better than–"

" _Don't_ say it."

x

"But that's not all the shuffle," Siobhan says. "Tell her." 'Then we can get to bed.'

"Well, before he left that Friday, less than 48 hours after we found out he's been made the Pensacola SAIC, Tony dropped a bomb on everyone– except Gibbs; I suspect the bomb that can ruffle him hasn't been built yet. In addition to Larsen, he also scooped up Ziva David as a Defense Against the Dark Arts Instructor."

"Ha- _Huh_?" For what she knows of her brother's team, "Wouldn't that be Michelle Palmer?"

"No. Tony decided that they could benefit from the kind of techniques the Mossad teaches their people, the 'kill you nineteen ways with a paper clip' techniques."

"Ow-e-ouch."

"She'll still be an Investigator but that'll be her number two focus until Tony's satisfied his people are all up to snuff."

"On snuffing people out?"

"Could be."

x

"Eight moves in two weeks," her sister-in-law marvels, "no wonder you're so stressed. What are you, down 40%?"

"Nope, only 20% and that's half the reason that I'm stressed. And you should see Abby; she _hates_ change; but after I got bumped up to Senior Field Agent–"

"Congrats again."

"Thank you again. Gibbs has pulled in a former NSA Analyst, Eleanor Bishop, who is driving - me - up - the - _wall_."

Siobhan shares the fact that "She's gorgeous. "

"Ah, now I get it. His own harem. Three lovely women, including you and Michelle, under him as Very Special Senior Field Agent, you all have to obey every order he gives you."

"That'll be the day. But it's a smorgasbord, or would that be smorgasbroad? A redhead," she says, touching her own locks which actually feel tired, "a brunette and a blonde."

"Ohhhhhh, a _Blonde._ "

"Willowy blonde."

"Thought he likes them curvy."

Siobhan runs her hands from ribs to sides and down to hips. "Believe it. But my husband is known for his eclectic tastes."

"He'd better watch that."

"Don't worry, I have the Last Rites marked in my book beside the bed."

" _Will_ _you_ _two_ _be_ _serious_?"

"I hardly think so, Cara."

x

"Why is number nine driving you up a wall?" Sarah asks, sounding like she's considering having mercy. At least, Siobhan thinks, it distracts her husband for an instant so she can rub her tearing, stinging eyes. Maybe she _should_ have nodded off in the elevator.

"I don't think she knows the purpose of a desk. She sits where Ziva did but on the floor in front of the desk where she spreads everything out. I've tripped over her three times coming into the bullpen."

"So, are you going to train her to use a desk or is she going to train you to take a wide path to yours?"

Siobhan is faster with the assurance that "My money's on her, but I'll let you know."

"So, you moved over to Tony's desk?"

"Yes, and Michelle switched around the partition from hers to mine, but I'm on hold on whether that was a good idea, because now she faces Gibbs directly."

"Oh boy." Sarah checks her watch. "Well, I'd love to stay to hear more of this musical houses routine but it's getting late. It's been late. It's past late. I'll torture you more this evening."

"I believe you," Tim says, kissing his sister goodbye until the next box and beatdown.

The bedroom has the final items to be boxed for the truck.

Siobhan fights again that urge to cry 'Timmm - berrr' and fall into his arms. Perhaps she can get him to carry her across one final threshold, despite her protest at the Hotel Meritz?

xxx

In the Northwestern quarter of Washington DC, Gil and Arlene Kingman are on the last part of their very early morning walk. In early September, the post midnight temperature has dropped to seventy eight so, too warm to sleep comfortably without a too loud air conditioner, the couple had decided at 2:00 to go for a walk. The prospect of cooler air as the night progressed being remote, the walk extended past three o'clock before the couple completed a long circuit. Now they walk east along the left side of P Street NW on their way home.

"Did you remember to call the painter?"

"Yes, dear," Gil says. Arlene isn't sure it's an agreement or the automatic response of someone who's not listening.

"What did he say?"

"He'll be around at three to look at the rooms, give us an estimate." They'd finally settled on colors for the dining room and master bedroom and have prepared to move onto the guest room overnight if such should be necessary. However, the house has good ventilation from the numerous windows generously placed throughout the two stories.

"I hope he'll be done by the end of the month," Arlene says as they approach 6th Street.

When they reach the Northeast corner of the JFK Recreation Center Gil glances neither right nor left. "It's Monday, he'll be done by the end of the week." He continues off the curb but the light is against them.

Arlene stops. "It's Tues–"

The car from their left slams into Gil and blasts him right and upward. His body lands back upon the hood and windshield and rolls over the car in a series of loud thumps drowned out by Arlene's screams.

He falls off the trunk to the asphalt all the way across the intersection and rolls several yards.

The car never slows.

Arlene's screams drown out the roar of the retreating vehicle as she runs across the intersection toward her husband's still body.

Lights appear in nearby homes while she's still screaming.

…

…

A/N: For the reason that sparked so many changes of address, see my Season 2, Episode 6: Pieces.


	2. Shortcut

Chapter Two  
Shortcut

Tim McGee enters the bullpen in a wide arc to his new desk before he notices slim blonde Ellie Bishop seated behind Ziva's old desk rather than staking out the foot path between their facing stations. 'Gibbs must be in,' he thinks as he goes around Tony DiNozzo's former post. The remaining change to the bullpen is Michelle Palmer having moved to his old location where she now faces Gibbs more directly. He wonders if she considers coming around the partition to be an advantage. "Good morning, ladies."

"See," Michelle says to Bishop across the diagonal, her inch wide circled star and cross jewel hanging before her breasts captures the light in her movement, "the eternal optimist."

Ellie grins, a broad hint that he's walked into something. With a woman on either side of him (he doesn't care for that either, Abby would have something to say about karma, he predicts an inevitable disaster in his future) he asks "What, that it's a good morning?"

Michelle turns to him with a devastating smile. "No, that either of us are ladies."

She's enjoying this a bit too much and a look to Ellie Bishop, who he'd early hoped to be a level headed supporter, shows she too is too entertained.

"How go the moves?" is a safer thing. The three of them are involved in this wide ranging project of musical residences, Bishop having come into the District when her recent divorce and shift from the NSA to NCIS settled her as a DC resident, but Michelle picks up first.

"The move is today, Jimmy's stayed home to manage it and I have a bet you're welcome to get in on that he won't remember some night this week to go to Rosemont instead of Georgetown."

"We'll know it if he walks in on Susan Grady," he predicts.

"In her underwear?" she challenges with a leading smile.

"Not going there."

x

"My apartment's shaping up," Ellie says. "I told my three brothers that if they want to crash they have to bring in the things to crash on, so all I had to do was point. It's already livable."

"Can I borrow your brothers?" Michelle asks. She'd cured Jimmy - she'd hoped - of his manic solicitousness over her pregnancy but will not ever raise the issue of moving furniture. Last evening she'd moved one end of the couch away from the wall to sweep behind it and his head had nearly exploded. It took twenty minutes for her to break her confinement on that couch.

"Say the word. I'm dying to farm them out. What about you, Tim?"

"We're partly in, the truck comes for the big things tomorrow morning." He can't believe that it's tomorrow. "Over a week of driving the small things in–"

"Like your record collection." Someone else touch his cherished collection of jazz vinyls? People are lucky he lets them into the same room with them.

"Believe it. Shav's in today, of course, but for a few hours. Sarah is coming in this evening just to help with the final details." He gives the women particular looks, the mini-pause a verbal clue for an easier-when-written segue. "Shav did ask me to ask if and when you want to schedule your House Blessings."

"You mean House Warmings?" Bishop asks. "With so many new places, that party's going to be a major holiday."

"House Blessing," Tim clarifies, "though many schedule it with a house warming, but it's a short ceremony, a blessing of each room dedicating it to a specific purpose; living room, bedroom, kitchen–."

"Bathroom?" she asks with a leading lilt.

"That too."

"Be worth it to hear that. Count me in. Are you doing one?" she asks with as straight a face as she can.

"Cute."

"How about you, Michelle?" she asks. "You schedule yours?"

Michelle turns from the woman to Tim, looking trapped. "Well, Iiiii, that is…."

"Two House Blessings?" he asks, having been prepared to rescue her. He has no doubt that Michelle and her Wiccan friends have their own traditions, as significant to them as the familiar Christian one is to him and his wife as well as Jimmy, though his is Roman if one wants to be specific.

"Oh, yes. Probably one day after the other though the house is big enough and if we did it the same night it'd be a really curious event but I'm not sure how it would go with a lot of the guests or if High Priestess Little or Mother McGee would agree or if there would be any–"

"Why not go upstairs during your break and ask her?" It is sometimes necessary to break her run-ons. She's always had phenomenal lung capacity and he'd once determined - and never did manage - to test how many words she can convey in a single conversational breath.

Derailed from her train ride, she does a mental switch of tracks and decides "That'd work too."

x

"So she's here today?" Ellie asks.

He thought he'd said so but decides she's messing with him. He's supposed to be hazing _her_ but has never perfected the art. Where's Tony? "Every Tuesday." He considers amending it to 'almost every' but decides not to get into it.

"You know, I never got to meet her," she steps out around her desk, avoiding Gibbs as he strides in. "While it's quiet I should…."

"Socialize on your own time. Grab your gear," he commands.

"What've we got?" McGee as SFA asks as they hurry to comply. There's been speculation in the past that the boss would leave anyone who wasn't ready behind and no one has ever felt confident enough to test the theory, though many times they'd run to beat the elevator's closing doors. It's a good way, he thinks, of continuing to break the new agent in on the realities of NCIS life.

"Navy Lieutenant Commander, hit and run this morning. Body's already downstairs."

This halts McGee in mid reach for his black windbreaker. "Ducky's having a litter of lizards." Bodies do not get moved until the ME has seen them in situ. People have come to grief by violating this rule. Before the women's time, his too, but ask the Deputy Sheriff Ducky had throw off a cliff.

"Hit and run was after 0300." Over four hours ago. "Metro didn't even find out from the hysterical widow that he was Navy until the City ME was done and the body was in the wagon. McGee, you and Palmer take the scene. Bishop, you're with me."

xxx

McGee, headed north on 6th from O, parks short of the yellow tape that marks the south side of the perimeter comprising the intersection of P and 6th plus 20 feet south on the eastern side of the JFK Recreation Center.

He and Michelle get out, duck under the yellow tape and head north toward a very large blood mark. The entire extended perimeter at the ends of each block has been restricted by four MPDC Officers who block traffic in each direction, and he'd learned nothing of interest from the team screening O. The RMP covering this intersection will be replaced by NCIS Agents, as will the others, but for now a single uniformed officer guards the scene at the northeast corner furthest from the blood trail. She waits there until they reach a point equally distant from the pooled blood, then she starts forward so they arrive together at the six foot wide puddle of viscous fluid. Much of it is maroon base and yellowish serum

The six foot wide puddle of blood has begun to dry from the outermost edges, but much of it is still viscous liquid, the components having only had time to separate into maroon base and yellowish serum.

This would have been a Gamma Shift case, perhaps Rosa Arnell's team (the off-shift is broken into convenient District quarters, not that that means anything) but the call had reached HQ too late and that lucky team is already on their ways to their homes.

They halt at the southern side of this blood pool and a brief exchange of introductions and credentials acquaint them with Officer Erica Caldon.

"Not a lot left to see," the woman says. When she'd first started toward them it had been to turn away intruders but the gold shields clipped to his belt and Palmer's skirt band had proclaimed the intruders to be allies and quite probable relief once the agents take over.

x

She's right. With the body gone, together with the most notable of the evidence, all that remains are the 'leftovers'. He's inclined to think, and has already discussed with Palmer, that the reason they have this case with so little friction from MPDC is that it is, or rather appears on the surface to be, a hit and run.

Of course, MPDC & NCIS have different standards. As with suicides, the agents investigate accidental deaths as homicides unless and until proven otherwise. Even if they did not, L. J. Tibbs – _Gibbs_ – does. He's glad to see there are no Reporters here. Access had been cut off at the four surrounding intersections, and it was by their shields and IDs that they'd been allowed to approach past O Street. The officer they'd spoken with had confirmed that the 'shut down' order had come from Detective Lieutenant Jeffrey Carpenter who, though homicide is not suspected (those have different rules) he had been close to the scene on Night Watch before being called away to deal with an actual homicide. The man, one of the very few Police Officers Gibbs openly calls 'friend', shares a particular trait with the boss; a hearty dislike of the media.

This silencing had been set up before the discovery that the deceased has been Navy.

"What have you seen?" McGee asks.

"Not a lot," she emphasizes. "Blood and bits of torn clothes - he was knocked out of his left shoe - bits of glass that look to be from a windshield. I found no headlight glass, looks like the car caught the vic full on."

That the agents can see from the trail beyond her. Blood spatter begins at the far north, left side of the intersection and grows to larger fields of denser spatter to end as a full puddle where the body had come to rest south of the intersection.

Unfortunately, no tread is visible. He meets Michelle's eyes and sees the same thought: the driver didn't hit the brakes either before or after the impact.

x

"The car was going south on 6th, hit him on the left side and blasted him out of that crosswalk and past this one to end up here, fourteen feet south on the south crosswalk, head north 42 degrees relative to 6th. Our CSU has photos and I'm told the physical evidence collected before Detectives found out he was Navy will be sent to your CSIs."

They'll be sent to Forensic Scientist Abby Sciuto but there's no need to go into that.

"Driver never slowed down," Michelle interprets.

"See this too often," Caldon says. "Driver panics, cuts out."

"In which case," Michelle says, "we should see acceleration marks."

"Maybe."

McGee, considering the officer's conclusions unwarranted, scans the street. It's a long unbroken path. He turns to his partner, more interested in a test than a conclusion. Ever since becoming SFA he's found he does a lot of tests of both women. Should he stop? Later. "How fast do you figure the car was going?"

Palmer takes in the scene. "Spatter, more a splash from the initial impact, starts a few feet into the intersection. Lieutenant Commander Kingman stepped off that curb," she points to the north west corner, "came to rest way over here." She indicates the drying puddle before them, yards beyond the closer crosswalk. "Fifty to sixty miles per hour."

"Works for me."

He turns to the policewoman, but Caldon anticipates the question. "I came on at 6, body was already gone. We're holding four square blocks and inconveniencing the whole neighborhood until you got here. Now you're inconveniencing the neighborhood," she says with a wry smile.

"Sorry."

"Well, don't let it happen again."

x

It will be quite some time before NCIS' CSU, which should be here by now, releases the scene to traffic. He's known scenes to be held for most of a day, but he's also known sites that were released in less time and because some of those releases had turned out to be premature, evidence had been missed and cases had been lost. One of SSA Rosemary Hauss' cases last year when she had succumbed to mounting pressure from Police, neighborhood and all else had later become the stuff of legend. She at least had not compensated later by holding scenes past their times; she'd relearned balance. "What did your CSU get?"

Caldon looks at the too-wide bloodstain. There are several smaller marks commencing from the middle of P Street toward the southern side of the box, culminating in a large volume south of the crosswalk. "Something like three plus liters of blood."

They obviously had not. Though samples had been taken from several spots, it is the cumulative volume which had been estimated. The average adult male body of the size he'd determined from the records holds about six and an eighth liters. Ducky can tell them how much blood Gil Kingman had, possibly to the deciliter, but for now all they need to know is that half of Kingman's blood is spread out on the ground before them, starting at the intersection but accumulating here. It hints at the possibility that Kingman survived for at least a few moments after coming to rest.

x

Michelle crouches down and uses a long cotton tipped swab to absorb some of the blood and secure it into an evidence tube, part of her mind on her Rule 3: 'When it looks like you'll have an easy day, pack a toothbrush'. "Lieutenant Commander Kingman was an experienced Seaman, used to having the fast reflexes needed for combat situations," she muses, then looks up to him, "yet he didn't evade the vehicle. Abby should be able to get something from this that may tell us why."

McGee signals Caldon to withdraw back to the RMP, then crouches beside Michelle and pitches his voice low. "If Kingman lived for even a few moments,"

"As he'd've had to to get this much exsanguination,"

He doesn't remark that she's been hanging around Jimmy for too long, "is it possible that you could, you know, get something?"

Facing the blood, she turns only her eyes. Caldon is out of range so she speaks normally. "I can get something."

"What?"

Still not facing him, she examines the bloody swab in the plastic tube. "Red and white corpuscles, platelets, plas-"

"No, I mean… you know."

She sighs. "Tim, I know you want a successful First Case, that you'd love a streak, but you are asking me to give you an inadmissible-in-Court shortcut."

"Uh, no. I'm not."

"You're not? Good."

"I'm just think if you _can_ do something that can reveal… this… thing…." He trails off under her steady stare. She's been studying Gibbs and practicing in the bedroom with her 'Transition mirror'.

"I'm disappointed in you, Tim. I'm so disappointed that I can't say it."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." She touches with a fingertip the inch wide sterling silver pendant that hangs between her breasts, the Circled Star of her Wiccan faith conjoined with the Cross within the pentagon, the sign of her Christian (Episcopalian) half. It had been an Engagement gift from Jimmy and she offers a flashing prayer to Minerva, goddess of Wisdom and Arete, goddess of Patience. "But –."

"Can you?"

Maybe he has hope, imagines solving this even before Gibbs finishes his first interview. She can appreciate that as much as she hates it. She lets him watch as she makes the decision. "I can't tell you the past, but looking into this blood I can tell you the future."

"The future?"

"The future."

A long breath. "Ohhhhhh - kay. Not what I expected, but go ahead."

"You really want it, Tim? You want me to call upon Blood Magic, one of the most powerful forms of magic, having to do with Life, Essence and all else." She stares more deeply into his eyes, tries to convey what he may possibly never be able to understand, but he meets her stare for stare.

"Okay, you're my S.F.A. so I must, even though it's not admissible." Still crouched before the pool, she puts away the testing supplies and sample, closes the black case, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Okay, better or worse, here goes."

x

She stares into the widest part of the pool, her breath quiet, her body very still, then after a half minute she turns her head slowly and looks at him.

"Did you see anything?"

"Yes, Tim, I did."

" _Incredible_. What?"

"You and I are going to sleep together."

" _What_?"

"I said you and I are going to sleep together. Soon. And neither my husband nor your wife are going to like it."

"How can that _be_?"

"Because when Gibbs finds out about this he'll give us both such head whacks _that we'll be unconscious for a week_!" She clutches the sample case, rises and stalks back to the car.

xx

There being nothing more for Erika Caldon to do here, McGee exchanges contact information with her and lifts the yellow cordon tape for her RMP to depart. When he turns, Michelle is again within the perimeter and she steps up to him.

"Tim, I have prayed to the Goddess, asked her to give me some words to say to you but I have none that will do."

"I'm sorry. I was stupid. I was fascinated by a possibility. I'm sorry."

"'Fascinated by a possibility.' 'Stupid.' You know, if that didn't so typify you I might be mad at that alone. But we've talked so much for so many months that I have to think you've never heard anything I said."

"I did."

"No. Please, no. I have to believe you never heard me, that like Special Agent DiNozzo you didn't believe me."

"I don't under–."

She presses her clenched fists to her temples as though to hold together her fragmenting skull and deep pain fills her face; frustration, anger and sadness. He must wait until it passes and she looks up to him. "Did-you-remember," she asks with overwhelmed patience, "that-I- _told_ -you," real anger slips through her mask, "that-I-took-an-OATH-that _I would Never use my Wiccan talents as a shortcut to the solution of a Case_?"

"I forgot."

"You forgot. You forgot."

She can't know she's echoing Shav from last night, but he knows he'll pay far worse for this mental slip. "I'm _sorry_."

Long silence.

Painful silence."

"Give me your hand," she says without tone.

"What?"

"Give me… your _damned_ hand."

He's not sure if it's safe, only that it's less dangerous to comply.

She clasps his hand in hers. "I forgive you," she intones formally and releases him before the last syllable dies, "because I must."

"What?"

"'forgive us our trespasses _as_ we forgive those who trespass against us'. If I don't forgive you I've asked the Goddess umpteen times not to forgive me either the next time _I_ trespass. So I am _really_ trying my _very_ best to mean it. But you and I, very soon, are going to have a very long, very serious, talk."


	3. First Interview

Chapter Three  
First Interview

Gibbs, on receiving this case and following his gut, had called Jennifer Shepherd to ask the NCIS Director to set a lockdown upon the Media. It's an unusual move and like many gut decisions if pressed he couldn't explain it, but learning from McGee that Jeffrey Carpenter had set his own gag order over the case he considers it to be a prudent move. Carpenter is the sole MPDC Officer whom he consistently trusts; the man has a gut as reliable as his own and so, despite the four hour delay he asked for the lid to be imposed. Shepherd had said it was likely too late to impose silence but she would do what she and Cynthia could.

He has driven his yellow and black Hemi along Q and then down 6th the half block and parked before their destination on their left and blocked the driveway in full disregard of traffic rules. Three cars crowd the right side driveway of the target townhouse and he doesn't intend for anyone to leave until he's spoken to them.

"I hope," Bishop says, "that this isn't the 'Open and Shut' kind of case it looks to be."

They never are but "You looking for extra work?"

"No, I hate those. They usually shut on me."

"See, you're thinking like an NCIS agent already."

x

White curtains hide the windows on the elevated main floor. The ground level is an overlarge garage.

Gibbs precedes Bishop up the steps, knocks on the door and it's opened by a man in his late 30's wearing a brown suit and brown expression. The man stands an inch taller than Gibbs, towers over Bishop and his suit costs a week of her pay.

Introductions with Sam Passalino are brief and empty, but he does admit them into the living room which must take up the majority of the first floor's footprint.

It's quite tastefully furnished; they note a lot of polished wood and beveled mirrors, an extra thick white shag carpet beyond the large welcome mat. There's an overloaded entertainment system, or mini theater, to their right. Straight on is an aquarium that challenges the system for size, while slightly to their left, separated by nothing but thought, is the dining room with a revolving ceiling fan and three globular lights which hovers over the table, two grim women and an equally somber man standing around it. The older woman on the left long side is of an age with the man opposite her while the other woman at the thin far end is some twenty years younger. The man is balding, his weight could come down and he's five nine which places him an inch above either of the two women with him. The older woman has dark brown hair that has missed two appointments with the bottle while the younger woman to his right, of an age with Kingman, has little need for enhancement though her eyes have lost a month's sleep in the overnight.

"Special Agents Gibbs and Bishop, NCIS."

x

"Thank you for coming... I guess," the distant younger woman says after some moments, her tone vague. Her eyes, her manner, have that haunted look of unreality that sudden and unexpected death so often brings.

The man to her right says "I'm Harry Arhyn, this is my wife Martha. We're Arlene's parents."

Their reason for being present suitably explained, Gibbs looks to the man who had admitted them. He sees no resemblance to this family nor to the formal Service portrait he'd seen of Lieutenant Commander Kingman. "Arlene and I work together," the brown suited man says in answer to Gibbs' unasked question.

"Sam usually picks me up for work. Gil has the..." Arlene's expression hardens lest it shatter.

"When I got here and found out what happened, I decided to stay a bit to help if I could."

"I don't think you should wait any longer, Sam. I can..."

"Sure. I'll tell them... I'll tell them Gil died, and you'll be out for a few days."

"Thank you."

"Is your car in the driveway?" Bishop asks.

"Yes, it is."

"I'll move our car."

Gibbs doesn't glance at her, knowing Bishop is smart enough to use the time to obtain more detail, leaving him free to concentrate upon the family.

x

At Harry Arhyn's suggestion Gibbs takes the table's remaining short end so Arlene sits opposite him, her back to the kitchen, her parents now buffering rather than flanking her.

"My condolences, Mrs. Kingman. We'll try to make our investigation as painless as possible."

"Thank you."

She doesn't sound as haunted as she had before, but she's still distant. He'd noted that all of her actions and responses are on a momentary delay. It's a familiar thing.

"What can you tell me about last night?"

"We were... we were coming home from a walk. We couldn't sleep, it was too humid and, after laying in bed for a while we decided to go for a walk."

"Did you go anyplace in particular?"

Again that time delay. "No, just a walk. Along Q, I think... yes, we walked up to 10th, then around R, came back down 14th to P, just wandering, no plans, no place special. We... we decided to try again, started back on P... we got back to 6th and Gil..."

She covers her mouth with her hands and tears come hard.

xx

Bishop follows Passalino down the long steps, knowing she has very few minutes to talk before the man realizes this is not a conversation but an interview. "Did you pick her up every day?"

He stops beside his car, turns to her and in his eyes she reads he's decided the question of getting to work on time vs. a longer chat with a beautiful woman. "Normally, unless she might be off."

"Do you work the same job?"

"Yes, an Investment firm."

"Have you known her long?"

"Yes. A few years ago when the Metro had that big strike the company paired up people who drive with those who used the Metro. She used the Green Line and I'm a bit more than two miles further out. When the strike ended we got along well so I figured 'I have to pass here anyway, why not?' Been doing it ever since."

"When do you pick her up?" He'd evidently been there for some time and it's not even eight.

"Six. I'm on seven to three, she's on eight to four."

"So you hang around for an hour at the end."

He grins. "Hang around. I'm lucky if I could finish my work by three, so her schedule is no inconvenience to me. In fact, since I pay more attention to the clock since I'm driving her in, my on-time record is golden."

"How's that?"

"I used to miss time if I either spent too much time in some bar or got lucky - or both. Now that I'm driving for two I can't miss work."

'Some bar or got lucky.' She hadn't missed the silver band on his finger and hopes it came along after the strike. If something like that had happened with Jake, maybe she'd still be married.

"How would you characterize her relationship with her husband?"

"Excellent. I never hear a bad word."

"Never?" she asks with a lilt.

He smiles. "Well, you caught me. Not never. Well there are always the occasional gripes but never beyond the pickayune, the kind of pizda things everyone can get once in a while. Certainly I would never say there was 'a problem in their marriage'."

xx

Gibbs has given Arlene Kingman time to recover, but intentionally asks before her control is complete "Did you hear anything? Horn, tires, the engine?"

"No. Nothing. He was just there."

He. "You saw the driver?" Unlikelier things have happened.

"No. Nothing. He was just there."

"After it happened," Harry volunteers, perhaps to give his daughter more time, "she called us. That was around 4:30."

Arlene nods. "The police were here, still on the corner. One of the women brought me back, asked me everything again. Asked me if there was someone I could call."

"And Mr. Passalino?"

She shakes her head. "I forgot about him until he came to pick me up. When I told him, he offered to stay until Mom and Dad..."

x

"You travel with him regularly?" he asks after too brief a time. He wants her able to answer questions but she need not be steady.

"Gil uses the car."

"Where do you work?"

"What difference does _that_ make?" Martha Arhyn demands. "Next thing you'll want to know about is his insurance."

Why not? The Navy provides a policy, but how much more might be involved? "What about his insurance?"

"How is our daughter to _live_?"

"You work…?" He already knows this.

"With Abrams, Ulsidan and LeBeau, it's an Investment Fir–."

"Our son-in-law was run down right in front of our daughter and you should be hunting for that driver, not collecting _resumes_!"

"Martha, the man's doing what he can."

"Not good enough, Harry, not good enough."

x

Gibbs decides, as the front door opens behind him - he'd rather have faced the door if he could have without pressing - and Bishop enters, that it's time to move into this. "Do you remember anything about the car?"

Bishop stays near the door where she can observe and absorb but not divert attention.

"No. It was all so fast. Gil started across the street. The light was red but there was no traffic. Suddenly this car came out of nowhere and hit him."

"The light was red?"

"He's always doing that," she says in tones drowning in bitterness. "Always did that. Never looked. It's like he was crossing a deck on a ship - you don't bother about cars."

There is no traffic in the desert either, Gibbs recalls, but when he'd come back he'd resumed looking. "Was there much traffic?"

"There wasn't _any_ traffic. That's probably why he never slowed down, never looked. He never looked! It was just one car. One" long, expletive filled breath, "speeding car!"

"Mrs. Kingman, was this a habit with the Commander?"

If a nod can be bitter this is. "All the time. I tried and I tried and I tried, he never paid one bit of attention. It was always just walk out, never once look. I argued with him and argued with him, never did one damn bit of good. Never paid attention. Never looked, just walked out no matter what happened. 'Let them stop.' 'They'll stop.'" She pounds the tabletop with her fist. "Never Looked. Not Once Ever Looked."

"Who else would know this?"

She throws her arms wide. "Everyone. Any who knows him. Anyone. Everyone."

x

Was someone laying in wait, or is this merely the case of a habit catching up with him? NCIS says it's the former until the latter is proven, but a well known habit is not always good for an Investigator if it opens a suspect pool as wide and deep as the ocean.

"Can you think of anyone who would do this?"

"I don't know. I can't think. I don't _know_!"

She begins to cry again, her father reaches out to take her hand and she clutches it, clings to it.

"Is that going to muck up his insurance?" Martha Arhyn demands. "If he stepped in front of a car?"

Interesting. "Don't know." He does intend to find out however– about many things. This is the second time the mother-in-law brought up the Commander's coverage.

In time the crying ends - for the moment. "What about the car? Did you see or hear anything? Headlights, brakes?" Sometimes re-asking yields better results, even - or especially - when control is strained.

"He just came out of nowhere." Her control shatters. "He killed my Gil. _He killed my Gil_!"

She rushes from the chair, would run from the room but Martha intercepts her into a hug.


	4. Tumult in the Quiet

Chapter Four  
Tumult in the Quiet

Doctor Donald Mallard, clad in green/blue scrubs, turns on the overhead lamp above table 1 to illuminate the man's clothed body in intense light. The circle of bulbs is positioned to cast no shadows into body cavities, regardless of where they must aim.

The clothes are drenched in too much blood; maroon-blackish but still damp, it will be many more hours before they dry completely in special chambers upstairs. Until then, the blood is tacky to the touch of his latex gloved fingers and that which has not been absorbed by material has separated into a maroon, gelatin-like mixture surrounded by pale yellow serum.

The Commander's presence here before he arrived for work made for a most unpleasant morning, Dr. Palmer's scheduled absence adding to that even though he will not be alone, but for these initial few minutes in which he has arrived early he must push aside his aggravation so he may approach the day. A body is not to be moved without his seeing it in sito. So much valuable information can only be gleaned at the scene and is now lost forever. Despite what he may tell Jethro and the other Agents the autopsy truly begins when he arrives at the scene, when he _sees for himself_ the position, condition and the myriad minute details about the body and the crime scene, the subtle aspects of so many things that can lead to answers.

This morning all he has are pictures and what things the city M.E. saw and saw fit to record. If the signature on the cover sheet had read 'Jordan Hampton' he would know that every detail was accurate and satisfactory and he could be content, but it is not and he is not.

x

He glances up as the pneumatic door slides open and Sammy Sky steps in. He reads a brief flash of surprise in her eyes together with what might be disappointment in anyone else and can well appreciate the moment. He sees she had thought to be early, to arrive before him, perhaps to impress him with her extra punctuality. She might have succeeded if not for the early morning call. Whatever the thought, she pushes it from her face with a bright smile.

The perennially joyous imp, five feet two inches of joie de vivre, lives in a heightened state of existence few could attain for long periods and which he doubts he could survive for a day. The young lady is pixie-like from her short (and pixie styled) pale blonde hair and a too attractive figure down to her blue high heels. He often suspects her pale blue eyes see too well into some other dimension that must be a source of true entertainment to keep the young lady at the rarefied height of delight in which she thrives.

Her baby blue vest and matching high heeled slippers (what a selection) are not a distraction to him, it is that matching micro-mini skirt that quite undoes the image of a Forensic Pathologist. 'How does someone so petite wear so scandalous a garment?' He has no desire to take a tape measure to it as police in Bermuda were once obliged to do for ladies' shorts and suspects she selected it specifically because she is filling in for Dr. Palmer today.

"Substitute reporting for duty," she announces with her usual impish grin as she crosses the room and gives him a brief hug. He has not managed to cure her of that tendency, more frequently expressed than even by Abby, but he has succeeded in reducing the time with himself and she does release him satisfactorily quickly to step back a foot.

x

"Indeed, Dr. Sky. Doctor Palmer is spending the day supervising the move to Rosemont."

"I feel a little left out," she admits up to him. "Seems like you, Gibbsie, Abby and I are the only ones _not_ moving this week."

Gibbsie? He's heard that one before through Agent David and he's not going to let her pull him in. "Yes, I shall have to revise my Address Book rather extensively, and for a while it is going to seem poorly referenced." He scrutinizes her a bit more closely. "On the subject, how long will you be renting the couch in Ms. Sciuto's flat?"

"Flat?" She does try to repress a giggle; it's a hopeless effort but she does force it down quickly. It's a fair question, however; she'd taken Abby up on her offer to move in after she'd lost the apartment she'd shared with Karen Huston following Huston's murder. The sharing of space had been intended to last for a short period while she found a new 'flat', but over the past few months they've been having so good a time that the subject had faded away. "Why? Trying to get me out? You think Abby's a bad influence on me?"

"Quite the reverse, my dear."

"Oww _oooo_." She licks her fingertip and ticks off an imaginary 1 in the air. In that gesture he takes note of her polished nails, particularly of both hands when she lowers the one. Starting with her right pinky, no doubt for the benefit of the observer, the colors are meticulously split left and right red and orange, then orange and yellow, yellow/green, green/blue and blue/purple. Her left hand, continuing the pattern with her thumb, are purple/red, red/orange, orange/yellow, yellow/green and green/blue. He considers it to be an excessive amount of work which nonetheless delivers a message clearly enough to anyone who can read it.

"Very elegant."

"Thank you," she says with a slight wave of fingers, "I did them for you."

"Now put on your gloves."

"Caught off," she admits with a grin, which makes him wonder what books she's been reading. "Actually I have a date with Bill this evening, but I knew I wouldn't have time if I didn't get started early."

"How is Mr. Marsters?"

Her shoulders drop with her deep sigh. "Exhausting."

That he doesn't intend to take her up on, not with the anticipatory smile that tugs at her lips as she awaits his reply. It does explain the rather fetching outfit, somewhat too dressy for work even if it will be substituted for scrubs.

x

"But seriously," she continues the original point, giving up whatever deviltry she'd planned, "it is pretty tight at times, and small as I am if it's not opened that couch isn't a luxury. And sharing four rooms makes dating something of a challenge."

"Yes, I did hear a story making its way through the building regarding a forgotten candle."

"Oh yeah," she admits, looking downward with a blush so he decides to be merciful. Her embarrassment, like any non-delight emotion, is exceedingly brief. "Plus the lease is up for renewal end of October and don't tell Abby I told you but I'm thinking Mr. Parsons is going to give us a hard time over the gunshots and various other things Abby's had to contend with when NCIS comes encroaching."

"Then the timing of this is fortuitous. My home is quite extensive, and since Mother passed on it's quite more than one person requires. In keeping with the recent changes, the sudden trend as it were, I am inspired to offer space to Abby, if she wishes, and to yourself as well."

Sammy grins and, decorative hand on canted hip, asks "Why, Doctor Mallard, what _are_ you suggesting? Do you really think you can handle both of us?"

"Nothing so provocative, young lady. In fact, I've decided to put the house up for sale in favor of a townhouse in Georgetown, on which I have already placed a deposit."

"Trading places with Jimmy?"

"His is not a townhouse and I suspect such an arrangement would make Agent Grady uncomfortable. But while those arrangements are in progress I would also be amenable to selling it to you and Abby, or else establishing a personal mortgage and thereby assuring myself a source of steady income. That is, if you think she would be interested."

x

Her teasing, which had fallen away at the word 'selling', and all else vanish in an explosion of enthusiasm. "Oh, _Wow_! That'd be _Incredible!_ I can't _believe_ it! I've _got_ to be there when you spring _that_ on her! She is going to _Freak_!"

One of the first things he'd learned from his young apprentice, beside her tendency to hug more frequently than Abby does, is that she's fluent in the language of emphatics. He resists the temptation to ask if she thinks the scientist will be interested; the irony might be missed and drive her to greater strata of enthusiasm. "In that case, I shall address the matter when we have more time."

"Of course," she says, making a sincere (and sincerely appreciated) effort to curb her enthusiasm, at least from a ten down to a reasonable four. Her ability is always impressive, it's like throwing a virtual switch and he knows she has had much practice in her life in doing so. Her delight, her enthusiasm, her élan are sometimes formidable and have led to unpleasant consequences in interpersonal relationships among less joyous people so she'd developed that switch, almost a blasé mask "Well then," she says, looking to the table beyond him, "who do we have with us this morning?"

"Lieutenant Commander Gilbert Kingman. Supposedly a hit and run incident."

The last of the good humor drops out of her. "You know, every time I come here, aside from that," she glances at the back lighted sign over the sliding door, her gift to him some months ago where the Latin words HIC LOCUS EST UBI MORS GAUDET SUCCURRERE VITAE translates to 'This is where death rejoices to teach the living'. "I can't help but think of the NCIS Motto."

"'To the living we owe respect, to the dead we owe the truth.'"

"They hit hard."

He knows she knows well enough by now that it is an actual hit and run accident when the people upstairs say that it is. She says to the still corpse as she approaches "Don't you worry, NCIS will find out who did this too you. You'll tell us everything," she reaches out to the man's shoulder but, bare handed, she doesn't complete the gesture, "and we'll get you justice."

x

The pneumatic doors slide apart and Special Agent Janet Levi enters, her expression switching from determined to disconcerted at the sight of the pair, Ducky in scrubs, Sammy in white blouse under baby blue vest, microskirt and matching high heels. "Errrr..."

"Yes, Agent Levi, what may we do for you?"

There's a body before them, but this is not the team that fit her mental picture. "Uhhh, you're busy, I'll come back."

"Nonsense, we've plenty of time. May I presume this is about your partner?"

"Well, yes," her gaze shifts to Sammy, "buu–."

"I'm going to change," the young woman says, backing toward the mirrored store room door.

"Take your time," Ducky suggests, his meaning needing no elucidation.

When she's gone, Janet says "I'm sorry, I feel awful, but–"

"When one is surrounded by the dead, my dear, one develops a sense of privacy." He glances at the corpse, then at the coolers behind the agent. "They hear all but never speak of what they know."

x

Reassured but too aware of time, Janet confesses "Ducky, I'm lost. I don't know what to do. Reverend Grant isn't here, Mother McGee has her shingle on the door, we don't _have_ a Rabbi but you've seen Lisa and I need a psychological autopsy before–."

'Before the real thing' will not be said.

"Of course." He invites her to his desk and leans on its corner, aware of the proximity of the store room, that Samantha will hear indistinct voices but that is all. The chair puts Levi's back to the bulk of the room.

"Ducky, what do I do?"

"Perhaps, as it has been three days since I visited her, you might catch me up."

"She's worse than ever. We _used_ to talk in the office until Kevin would tell us to shut up so he could work and that we should. When I was out all that time she called every day, visited three times a week. When that _Bastard_ did what he did she was by me. When those pictures came out, the Cherem, you remember?"

"I am unlikely to forget."

"She kept me from eating my gun. One _second_ but she was _there!_ She _broke into my parents' apartment_ to straighten... She was a rock," tears and fury find expression in "and those _Fucking Sons of Bitch Bastards_ _ **BROKE**_ her!"

x

Ducky doesn't move or speak for the near minute it takes the woman to regain her control but at the end he hands her a handkerchief to wipe away the last tears from her eyes and cheeks.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I am of the same opinion regarding their illicit parentage."

Despite her grief a laugh breaks through and though she retains the handkerchief for occasional dabs she regains her voice. "I don't know what to so. I'd go to my Rabbi if I felt he had the answers. I've spoken to Reverend Grant and to Mother McGee and don't tell dad or mom–"

"Your secret is safe."

"I come to you for a psychological autopsy, praying it won't turn into a real one, but I have no idea what to do. Last night I visited, it was way after hours but a gold shield – " she taps the metal insignia at her belt. "Did you know this is hers? I'm holding on to it until she gets it back. Mine is with her things with Shepherd."

"Yes, I'd heard." He won't say he was close enough to witness the moment in the hospital waiting area.

"... can work wonders. But we talk and she doesn't. It's not the meds, I checked. I was there before pill time but... she... doesn't talk. Doctor says she should be healing faster... but she isn't."

"Trauma, such as each of you has suffered this year, brings about different effects."

"You mean I wanted to get back on my feet to fuck up that bastard who did me but Kev blew away that bastards that did her. But it's not the same."

"No, that is not what I referred to."

"No. No, it isn't. That would have made it so much easier."

Ducky hitches one leg over the corner of the desk, half sitting but also having the effect of bringing him closer, allowing him to moderate his voice to more personal tone. "Lisa DuBois' identity was strongly tied to her eventual pregnancy and motherhood. She knew that greatly desired life was well in the future but that gave her time to plan."

"She planned all right. I never could keep track of her family make-up, she was all the way from one to a dozen, had their names and careers all mapped out."

"Agent DuBois hails from a large family, four sisters and two brothers, I believe?" Janet nods. "She is the only one of her siblings who is not yet a parent and her extended family of many aunts and uncles continued that trend to the point where Family Reunions are considered a dangerous event."

"You don't holler 'James' unless you want to be trampled."

"And her mother, I understand, frequently spoke of the satisfaction gained by so large a family, seven children over a six year span. Since that tendency extended over so many generations, seeing and hearing that satisfaction coupled with the joys of a very large, close knit dynasty had a powerful shaping effect upon the spirit and psyche of the young Lisa."

"She wanted the same, always naturally assumed – believed – that she would have it. And any guy not committed to as much never got to first base with her."

"Yes, I believe she once used a baseball allusion to describe her brood."

"She was going to have the world's first single family mixed Pro Baseball team."

"And now she shall never be a mother."

x

"But Ducky, That's Not True! She CAN be a mother! Thousands of women are! There are Thousands of Thousands of –."

"Offspring by her own body, the manifestation of her love and that of her future husband."

"But Ducky–!"

"I have discussed this alternative with her several times. But the years of anticipation and planning, coupled with the grief, have devastated her. The attack has rendered her unable to conceive and she is also unable to conceive of an alternative. An alternative is practical and pragmatic and while buried by grief and loss of identity and of her future, Lisa DuBois is not capable of being practical or pragmatic."

"She's dying." Janet leaves the chair, steps away. Leaves him, leaves the future, turns back and fights the tears. "Isn't she" He doesn't answer. " _Isn't She_?"

"There are different kinds of death, yes, and death of the spirit can drag the body to–"

Janet whirls away, three feet and the silver Table 3 blocks her. She lays her hands upon the cold metal and can only see her friend upon it. Gasping, trembling, she can't fight the tears any longer, not tears of frustration for what might be, not tears of fear for what may be but tears of grief for what will be.

xxx

Special Agent Kenneth Templeton sits upon the bench in front of Deli on 5th Street SE at the corner of M, roughly midway between the Navy Yard Metro Station on the Green Line and the Pentagon, a tiny hop north of the Yard where it is very natural for an Agent to grab a bite of breakfast before dropping down to work. He's relaxed, savoring a croissant and coffee while falsely enjoying the steady stream of attractive ladies who pass traveling in each direction. He has enjoyed this leisurely break and the ever changing view every 7th workday for a month, his view of the women excellent camouflage for his preferences (his partner Patrick Larsen utilizes the same lie) and at this moment his attention is fixed on the passing woman with the breeze challenged brown miniskirt.

Visually attentive as he is to the woman who's in danger of losing the battle he is more aware of a younger blonde woman on the south side of the street whose red dress is not threatened by the changing breezes. After she passes to his left and out of sight he spends an additional three minutes inspecting more women (if he had his druthers he'd ruther check more appealing views), finishes the last bite of his croissant, crumples his napkin and stuffs it into the cup, disposes of them in the receptacle beside the bench, stands and walks right.

On the corner of 3rd he pauses at a news stand, buys a copy of the Washington Post taken from the external shelf; not the top issue but the one seven down, the one with the edge of an envelope not quite flush with the paper.

A left turn down 3rd passes Tingey, then Water and, entering the Yard with newspaper tucked under his arm, past the Guard Station and secure, he takes out his phone and presses the speed dial button.

/Director Shepherd/ the woman's voice announces into his ear.

"Templeton, Director. Red dress. I have it."

/Bring it directly to my office./

"Got 'cha, Chief." he says in his best Maxwell Smart voice.

/Don't be a smart ass./

x

Ken Templeton is gratified that the blonde woman has made a discovery yesterday, allowing this morning's pass off. Seven Agents rotate weekday mornings on that bench, yesterday's coverage had been by Patrick Larsen while their team leader Melanie Kelman will take tomorrow before the rotation shifts back to Fred Higgins' team but Karen Wetzel, the fictitious 'Karen McKnight', had this morning worn red to announce that progress had been made and the 'dead drop' engaged.

Wetzel/McKnight's status as an NCIS Agent is exceptional: she doesn't have one. The young woman had been recruited directly out of FLETC before Finals, hence no Graduation, for one special mission. Not being an Agent - in fact the official record is that she'd washed out of training, her chance of being recognized against a carefully crafted ID is vanishingly small.

Secretary of the Navy Clayton Jarvis is suspected of having either aligned with the McGillicuddy-Crocetti-Morrison gang or of _being_ Jackson McGillicuddy, but one does not accuse one of the Joint Chiefs of Treason and Mass Murder without extensive and comprehensive proof. As SECNAV, Jarvis knows of every DC NCIS agent, either personally or through the resources of his office, thus the Mission: Impossible scheme and the fallback to classic practices of espionage.

All the evidence thus far that leads to Jarvis is circumstantial. Even the eyewitness testimony by the kidnapped PDC scientists and their families did not provide sufficient confirmations, not even a coordination with each other.

And yet the circumstances of all the clues can be made to fit like a complex jigsaw puzzle.

If Clayton Jarvis is McGillicuddy the NCIS must be able to prove it on their own without bringing anyone else in lest they do damage to an innocent man. If he is not their target he should not know he is being investigated.

However, if he is their mass murdering adversary and something goes wrong, a half-trained Apprentice, not even a 'Probie', is deep in enemy territory with little assurance of extraction.

x

Wetzel had failed her 'Kobiashi Maru', not so named yet generally known and highly effective because _nobody_ passes it. Everybody dies. She'd missed a clue in a simulation and had been caught by surprise when her partner had betrayed her, starting with a kick to the back of her head which had raised a respectable lump, then he'd strangled her to unconsciousness to recover some time later. The lump had helped to assure that even after her 'resurrection' she would never forget her murder.

His own 'KM' experience had also been at the hands of a partner, though he'd died by a very painful garrote which had lasted as a mark about his neck for a fortnight. He'd wakened to a Review Board which had very thoroughly, over the course of three hours, ripped the young novice three new ones, going through in excruciating detail every slight imperfection he had committed. By the time it was over he'd wished the garrote had done its work completely.

But if something goes wrong this time then for Wetzel there may be no waking up to a Performance Evaluation.


	5. Find That Car

Chapter Five  
Find that Car

"What have you got?" is how Gibbs announces his return to the bullpen with Eleanor Bishop. McGee and Palmer had gone directly to the accident scene which was ultimately taken by CSU so they'd had plenty of time to accumulate evidence and yet return to prepare an appropriate report by the time he and Bishop got back from the Kingman.

"Lieutenant Commander Gilbert Kingman," Michelle opens, leaving her desk from Tim McGee's former station to snatch up the plasma screen's control from the unit set between the desks and display the formal portrait and data sent from her computer, "42 years old, assigned to Naval Research, was in charge of a team working on operational hardware for the Zumwalt Class Destroyer's computers. That's over now, of course, but you'll be interested to know that his concurrent assignment had been the Millennium and its planned sister ships." The Eon and the Epoch had been on the Drawing Board and there they shall stay.

Gibbs is not pleased to hear of that ship again. None of the three agents are and their manner telegraphs to Bishop that it is a subject best held in abeyance. The ill-fated mission has come to be known as the 'Millennium Debacle', or to his view, the 'Millennium Disaster'.

While the Navy was publicly ushering in the Zumwalt Class of ultramodern Destroyer, together with the Rickover and the O'Catháin as the new era in Naval vessels, the ultra-secret 'Millennium' Class Dreadnaught Cruisers had been intended to herald the 22nd Century of design, computer control and independent operation.

The crewless, computer driven ship - some imbecile's idea of progress - had been intended to launch that new age. Instead it had destroyed the retired Cruiser Ticonderoga together with the veteran crew who had served over the vessel's 23 year tour as well as the scientific team that had headed the project. The veterans, in a signal honor, had been assembled for a veritable 'Passing of the Torch', an 'out and back' trip from Philadelphia intended to honor those who had served the 'old Navy'. Instead they had become the ship's first victims.

In a series of attacks that had at first left people who did not know computers, such as himself, speculating that the ship's computer brain had gone mad, the death toll rose. The Cruiser had destroyed several military planes, a passenger jet and one of the buildings of Tampa College USF, killed thousands and would have left New York City uninhabitable for months before the controlling saboteurs had been captured.

McGee had risked his life infiltrating that warship and the subsequent investigation had broken three Admirals, five Captains, two Marine Generals and an odd assortment of high ranking Officers - and still the brass is falling.

Funerals had been overwhelming and lawsuits, frequently high, reached record proportions within days.

NCIS itself had been decimated, a dozen Agents killed, and it'll be years before they collectively recover from that disaster.

It had been the blackest period in US Naval and NCIS history.

x

"What was his involvement?" That he's still in uniform is significant. Scores of men and women no longer are.

"His area of expertise," McGee says, "is technical; hardware rather than software." It had been through software manipulation that enemy spies had gained control of the warship. "Kingman was re-vetted, returned to duty."

"What's he been doing?"

"The Zumwalt launch is on Hold and two more ships in the Class are also on hold as far as they're built while the Navy goes over all the ships with microscopes."

"Are more changes on the drawing board?" Bishop asks.

"Kingman is still in charge of Tech at the Pentagon," McGee says. "Been there for the past three years. He makes trips on an irregular basis to Gulfport but he's pretty much Administrative rather than hands-on."

"Crucial?"

"You mean to kill for?" Ellie asks. Though she'd been with Gibbs while this information was being accumulated, she recalls a lot about this case from the NSA. "Not on the Zumwalt, more likely it could be related to his forthcoming work, whatever that might be."

"'Whatever'?"

"Is that a naughty word?"

"You could have gone without saying it."

"If he does have a next assignment, I haven't found anything on it while we were coming back in." He gives her silence. "I'll look deeper."

"Yes, you will."

"Yes, I will."

x

"But what chance do you think this could be what it looks like?" she asks, working to a rally. "A simple hit and run?"

"We rule out everything else first."

"You mean like a couple going out for a hot and humid walk when there are three air conditioners in their house?" When they'd left the meeting with the family, she and Gibbs had done a perimeter check of the two stories above the garage and had found two units in the back on two and three in addition to the one on the second floor right side.

"Our only witness says he walked out without looking," she passes on to Tim and Michelle, "and that witness would be the beneficiary of the insurance her mother was very keen on."

"She asked about it twice. Palmer, check how much he had, who the beneficiaries are, how an accident affects it. McGee, you find that car?"

"Find might be too strong a word." Taking the plasma remote from his partner, he calls up the feed from his own computer.

"Find is the one I want."

The camera mounted at the stop light at the intersection had caught the car, but so rapidly was the dark vehicle moving that the image is too blurred to make out such detail as an unilluminated license plate.

At the instant the photo was taken, Gilbert Kingman's body is twisting above the roof, already midway through the intersection. The incident is so rapid that Arlene Kingman, still standing at the intersection, is turning toward the body of her then possibly late husband but has not yet begun her scream.

"There were no tire marks prior to or after the impact," McGee says. "Driver maintained the same pace before and after."

"We think he was doing 60," Michelle says.

"Speed limit's 25."

"Like I said."

x

"Go back to before the hit."

The images are stop motion, one shot per half second, and when he steps back the car retreats upward out of the frame, Gil and Arlene Kingman step back in a series of poorly focused still images. When run forward at faster pace, two frames per second do not do well compared to a normal 24 frames to the second view, but Arlene can be judged to stop at the curb while Gil keeps on going.

The images are both of poor quality and through a dirty lens, altogether not enough to determine if the man had ever looked for oncoming traffic in the north- or southbound lanes, but if they can get a better image of the angle of his head, perhaps starting or coming off a look….

"Can you clean that up?"

"That is cleaned up." He's seen that glare too often to wilt under it. S.F.A.s do not wilt, at least not this one, not any more. "Maybe Abby can."

"Send it to her." The widow had been certain of his habit not to look for oncoming traffic and according to this what happened might have been the inevitable result of a really bad habit.

He's not happy with that at all. His gut kicks it back up. Knowing his behavior, hadn't she long ago begun to compensate for it? Or was she too tired? He'll be interested in hearing her answer when he goes back there in the morning.

He hopes she'll be stable by then and the parents won't be there.

Hit and Run is not an uncommon thing, but couple it with the mother-in-law's off key interest in the state of the Insurance and the odds that the only car on that stretch of road, speeding 60+ at 0300 would intersect that space at that particular moment –

His gut hates it.

x

"Did you _track_ the car?"

"No, boss."

The stare Gibbs fixes him with has him regret the words but "The next intersection has a non-working camera. It's been scheduled for repair but with reduced funds they haven't gotten around to it."

"All right, the one after that."

"There is none."

"None, McGee?" Did he make a mistake in choosing his SFA?

"No camera and I checked the surrounding three intersections, nothing like that car went through any of them."

"Parked?"

"If so, it either may come from somewhere within a four square block range or it waited an unknown time, then continued on later, maybe when traffic picked up. I'll have to track all of them all day."

"Bishop, you're with me." The look she gives him says 'I haven't even sat down yet'. "McGee, find that car, even if its on that deep web."

"Dark web?"

"Yeah, there too."

xxx

Ducky turns his attention to the External Exam of the corpse before them. Lieutenant Commander Gilbert Kingman appears to be in his mid-40's, though considerably worse for having impacted with the front and top of an automobile as well as a considerable stretch of asphalt. Hair hasn't appeared to gray - pending a more detailed evaluation by Abby of the shafts and follicles - and he'd kept himself in good shape.

Of course, there are extensive ravages from the various collisions he'd sustained, the story of which is wrought in the clothes. He hasn't been given any information on speed or even the Make of the car. In fact, he rarely is. These are things he must provide to others, not to receive from them.

x

Having made his initial notes, Ducky crosses the suite to the portable X-ray machine as the store room door opens and Samantha returns, clad now in blue short sleeved scrubs (extra small special orders, loose at the top). She had opened the door some time previously but saw that he was still in intense conversation with Janet Levi, had gone back in until the outer room resumed its normal quiet.

He notes that she has once again put the blue foot coverings over pink ballet slippers, the cross tied bands reaching above her calves, which she'd started to wear several months ago and he refrains from making note of this aloud.

He has not spoken to her earlier about traveling to work in inappropriate footwear - they did fit appropriately with her earlier attire - and at this point he doesn't want to address the matter. She'd dressed in baby blue high heels that matched her vest and somewhat too miniskirt for a date with her young man (she's here during Dr. Palmer's moving day) and he is presently not in the mood to involve himself in any further discussions, not until he cools down over Kingman's body having been moved without his examination of the scene as well as the upset Agent Levi is enduring.

Plus, conversations with the young lady occasionally put him in mind of Lewis Carroll's depiction of the trip down the White Rabbit's hole.

"Welcome back."

"She seemed pretty intense. I didn't want to interrupt."

"Appreciated."

"Is there anything I can do?"

He gives serious consideration to the question but can see no aspect in which the young woman's unalloyed joy can meld into the situation. "I think it would be best for now for you to follow your first inclination."

"Okay," she grants. Neither of them needs nor wants a diagram.

She looks to the still clothed body. "So what's the story with Lieutenant Commander Kingman?"

Ducky rolls the X-ray machine into convenient reach but their first step, after his having completed the initial external examination, is a systematic removal of the street clothes. "Let us find out."

x

Kingman had suffered considerably this early morning. Even without x-rays which are to come after stripping, fractures of leg and torso bones are evident. Compound fractures have punctured his flesh and press against torn trousers. On the lower left thigh the fibula has punctured the cloth on his inseam. His skull is caved in on the left side and by his pallor, even with livor mortis, too much of his blood that hasn't soaked into the clothing has been left behind at the accident site.

Part one of the External Examination having revealed its limit on torn and bloody clothing, it's time to remove these for transport to the lab upstairs so they may begin work on part two. Scissors are employed, following seams so Abby can reassemble the material if need be, and then x-rays will be taken.

Ducky cuts up Kingman's right pants leg seam until he uncovers where the right fibula has punctured the skin, five inches of bone fragment sticking out through bloody flesh.

Sammy wields the clipboard to mark wounds and injuries on the forward and backward male image with corresponding marks while adding notes of Ducky's observations even though their words are recorded by the microphone hanging over their heads.

Then, after a panoramic photograph and x-ray series, the body must be washed. In this the two simply take sides.

In time the X-rays are developed and set on the light wall for examination.

"Multiple compound fractures to the left tibia and fibula," Ducky details, "patella fractured, three clean breaks to the femur, heavily fractured ilium, right side tibia snapped mid-length, two breaks to the femur. Sacrum fractured. Nine broken ribs, damage to the spinal column at 8, 9, 11 and 13 vertebrae. Left parietal, temporal and zygomatic fractures. Compound fractures to left ulna, radius and humerus."

"People say 'break every bone in your body'," Sammy says. "They don't realize what it means."

"No, they do not. I'm going to make an initial estimate the car was going about 65 miles per hour to do this much damage. The damage to the legs and hips is consistent with a left side impact. I want to take some samples from the skull, see what we can find in those wounds."


	6. Note from the Dead Drop

Chapter Six  
Note from the Dead Drop

As soon as Special Agent Kenneth Templeton enters the outer office of NCIS Headquarters bearing the small Manila envelope, the contents flat and very thin Cynthia Sumner waves him through. "She's been waiting."

"This case isn't over."

"Tell me about it."

"You cleared for IMF work?"

"I invented the IMF."

He would love to stay and banter but the information, whatever it might be, is certainly long anticipated. It has been weeks since FLETC student Karen Wetzel had been planted into the Pentagon and this is the first word she has been able to bring out. Too much rides upon the contents of this envelope, none of it likely to be good.

x

Shepherd is indeed waiting, and by no stretch of the term is she patient. She takes the small envelope from Templeton's hand but as he would turn to leave "Stay."

"Yes, ma'am," he agrees as neutrally as he can.

What comes out of the envelope raises more questions than it tries to answer. The contents number exactly two sheets, on the first of which is a brief note in decidedly feminine script: 'From the Desk of SECNAV. He took a call while dictating a letter, wrote this, shuffled me out and left. So I snuck back in saying I lost my earring.'

It's a common ploy that might come back to bite her later. Shepherd determines to give the student a more thorough course if she comes out of this. FLETC could do better with it's Neo-Newbies.

The second sheet is blank.

Holding this to the light, turning it to various angles, Shepherd declares it to be "Handwriting impressions. I can't read it."

The paper is evidently from a pad, pressed down by the force of a pen into a pressure trace of whatever had been above it.

"To Abby?"

She pushes away from the desk. "To Abby."

xx

"… so we bring it to you."

"Good thing too." The Scientist, clad in black tee shirt and equally dark jeans under black embroidered white NCIS FORENSICS lab coat holds the paper aloft before them. "It looks like a blank sheet of paper, it feels like a blank sheet of paper– "

"Abby, just tell me what's on it."

Without comment - and the build up had been going so well - she carries the mysterious missive to a side table. From a cabinet she removes a ten inch long silver wand, a small container and a perforated tray.

She lays the seemingly blank sheet upon the tray, turns it on and a vacuum pins the sheet firmly. Then she passes the silver wand slowly along the paper. "I'm charging it with simple static electricity. The pressure of the pen increased the density of this sheet by a minuscule amount, but that tiny increase is plenty for this." She picks up the small container and very carefully sprinkles black powder over the sheet to form a fine coating. "Metallic powder. And now:" She tilts the tray and much of the powder slides off.

"Well, I'll be a –."

"Careful, Ken, Michelle has taught me that the gods sometimes grant random wishes and they tend to have strange senses of humor."

"You don't say."

x

Shepherd, not happy with what has been revealed, looks from the paper to Templeton. "Get Kelman down here now."

The voice contains disguised stress yet the qualification is most telling. She did not ask for his team leader to be summoned, she wants the woman here _now_.

Kenneth can feel the tension mount by the second. The sheet contains a series of seven names and no further clues.

It takes less than three very long and silent minutes for Melanie Kelman to come. Templeton has long ago worked out the reason for this act and is gratified to confirm it when Shepherd shows Kelman the charged paper. "Do you know these people?"

He knows either woman could have easily looked them up but there will be no record of this request, not on paper, in a computer or a record made by any other means. When the dust is cleared from the sheet, these names will be gone.

However, of all the agents in this building Kelman has one notable talent that comes in very handy in a covert operation. If she has ever seen any of these names, she remembers them.

"Nikolai Abaakumov, Viktor Golovkin, Sergey Gusakov, Boris Meanodrov, Mikhail Pestel, Pavel Remov, Bartholomew Sukhanov." She closes her eyes, looks back into the past. "All of these men have been low level Agents of the former KGB, all of them are retired."

"No one retires from the KGB, whether it's defunct or not."

"Nonetheless, to my knowledge these names have not appeared in Russian documents I have seen since before the fall of the Union."

"Listed together?"

"Always separately. They were, at best, regarded as low level operatives. Privates and Enlisted men in any army, the kind James Bond blew away before the opening credits."

"The kind of lost names that Vladimir Putin can get the most use out of."

"May I ask, Director, what this list is for?"

"I'm not entirely sure, the list came to us from Karen Wetzel, the 'dead drop' your team and Higgins' are backing up along with," she points to the paper, "this date two months hence.

"I have a very bad idea," Templeton says, his heart sinking.

"I hate bad ideas. Tell me."

"You put Karen Wetzel undercover in the Pentagon because she's a pre-Probie, not even interviewed by any Agency, a FLETC student so absolutely unknown. What if Russia, McGillicuddy, whomever, is thinking of the same thing, with experienced agents who are hat racks and umbrella stands?"

"You're right; that is a very bad idea and I do hate it, especially if SECNAV is somehow hooked into it. Memorize this," she knows Kelman did in the first second, "destroy it, then keep an eye on them."

"Yes, ma'am."


	7. Ice Breaker

Chapter Seven  
Ice Breaker

The Pentagon, despite its simple geometric shape, is a maze of interlinked disciplines. A logical choice would have been to assign to each branch of the Military a specific wing. Perhaps the intent had been to do that, but then Military Intelligence - an oxymoron if Gibbs had ever heard one - had gotten into the planning. Therefore, it takes more time than he considers necessary to reach the section assigned to Kingman and his associates and their CO, Captain Charles Blain.

After the initial expressions of regret he asks across the chief's desk, Bishop seated beside him, "How long has Commander Kingman been assigned to this project?" It's one of the many questions he already has the answer to. Susan Grady of Polygraph, one of the participants in this musical apartments operation (she's taking Palmer's tomorrow), would call it a 'control question'. He uses it to learn what someone looks like when telling the truth.

But if Captain Blain lies about something as insignificant as this fact, this interview will take a very different course.

x

"He'd been splitting his time between Millennium and Zumwalt for more than three years. Since Millennium was completed, he'd been full time on Zumwalt."

"Zumwalt isn't ready to launch?" Some time ago he'd thought it was further along than Millennium and already launched. According to what they thought they knew, it was supposed to be in operation with two sister ships in different stages of construction. This development had been a surprise until he'd checked details but he'll start this session seemingly still uninformed.

"It's been ready since March, but that's been kept quiet from the media." This is the reason Gibbs pretends equal ignorance with Blain. "When Millennium went south the Navy ordered review of every ship in development and construction."

"Sounds pretty inconvenient."

"Damn straight. But Millennium killed hundreds of people and would have taken out New York." The ship's missiles were programmed to damage or destroy every bridge and tunnel, thus turning the metropolis into five isolated land masses and cutting the whole off from New Jersey and Connecticut. Restoration would take decades, cost trillions of dollars and until systems were restored there would be virtually no fresh water, no food, nothing.

"Navy lost a slew of Admirals, et cetera. Everyone wants to make sure nothing can ever go wrong again."

Gibbs won't ask how fulfilling that order is going. A glance to Bishop confirms she understands discretion as well.

x

"I'd want to put a lid on Commander Kingman's death."

"So far I've kept one on. I had the feeling there would be an investigation."

If only everyone were so intelligent. Then again, they've dealt with this man before. "I want to talk with his staff. Where will we find them?"

"D-40 through 47. His yeoman is PO1 Celeste April."

"Best place to start. Until were done, it's best to keep all outside contact off."

"Epsilon cuts off all transmission, Internet, television, everything. It forbids conversation on any subject other than specifically assigned duties, both on and off duty. It's used to guard against widening of suspected breaches of security."

"That'll be good."

Blain activates his intercom. "Petty Officer Jackson."

"Aye, sir," the woman's voice answers through the speaker which could be of better quality. For a unit that provides the best hardware available, they do not seem to avail themselves of it. Cannot?

"Institute Condition Epsilon."

"Aye, Captain."

/Condition Epsilon,/ comes from the wall speaker with somewhat better fidelity. /Repeat, we are now in Security Condition Epsilon. Secure all stations, abort all external contact, communication of on and off duty personnel is restricted to operations and specialized duties until further notice./

Gibbs hopes it is comprehensive and soon enough.

x

Celeste April is too young, in Gibbs' view, to be a First Class, perhaps 20, but the advancement of eggheads is different from that of Able-Bodied S –. Strike that, April appears to be very able bodied indeed and there is much in that line of thinking that he mustn't pursue either. Many an Investigator has come to grief by letting appearances cloud a first impression. He has no notion of her competence. Auburn tressed, her hair may be an inch beyond regulation but a less experienced Investigator may decide it had never seen sea spray, and perhaps she fills out the white uniform a skosh too well, but R&D Officers are not selected for their physical qualifications. He would do far better to review her dossier rather than her attributes.

Is this what comes from not having DiNozzo to slap back into line any longer? If so, it's time to refocus before he must direct McGee to start giving _him_ wake-up calls.

"Petty Officer April?" Shields and IDs conclude the introductions.

"Good day. What may I do for you?"

A good first point. As Ducky would say, she knows whereof she speaks. "You are Lt. Cmdr. Gilbert Kingman's Yeoman." Since they're in the outer room to his office that isn't even a stretch on the worst of days.

"Yes, sir."

"I'd like to speak to you about the Commander."

"Oh, I'm very sorry, but a few minutes ago the Captain put the section on Lockdown. I'm really unable to help you."

Rather than being put out, this is exactly the response he had hoped for. "Yes, I asked him to do that, and to give us this." From his jacket pocket he produces a folded paper which she opens and reviews with a smile.

"O _kay_." She glances to the copier at the left wall. "You mind?"

"Oh, I insist."

x

Once they each have copies and she stows hers safely away in her drawer while he can use his for future consultations (how many will think to make CMA copies before ignoring Epsilon?) they can turn to business.

He intends to search the inner office but he first wants as much information as he can get from Yeoman and colleagues.

"We need to speak to you about Lt. Cmdr. Kingman."

"Yes, I'm sorry, I don't know where he is. He's usually in by now but he hasn't called. We have an operation in Gulfport but he usually calls with a list of things he wants done if he's gone down there."

"It's all right." He's also satisfied that she genuinely doesn't know her boss is in a cooler in Autopsy.

"Oh. Okay. What would you like to know?"

"What is this department working on?"

"Computer hardware for the Zumwalt Class of Destroyers. Lately we have a lot of time to work on this."

"Why is that?" How well he knows, but he has never minded seeming uninformed if it would yield the right sort of information.

"The Navy has halted the launch of the Class ship and a review of every system aboard the three ships." She says this with a respectful tone and an underlying 'You cannot _not_ know this.'

'Sometimes you're caught out.' "How goes the Review?"

"Nothing wrong at this end. We use top-of-the-line systems and everything is installed and tests out at or above Specs. If not for what happened to the Millennium, which as you may know was _not_ a hardware issue, Zumwalt would be in the water and the Rickover and the O'Catháin would be in the final stages. I've already ordered the champagne."

"No problems?"

"None at all."

"I understand you have a new Project coming up."

She shrugs. "I can't tell you, and not because of 'Need-to-Know' but because I don't have a clue."

"None?" He probes the woman from eyeballs to back of her skull.

"Scout's Honor," she assures him with the appropriate salute.

"Does the Commander know?"

"I'm sure he does, but this place has a secret room where they make secrets, but that location is Top Secret."

"Filed under 'You-don't-need-to-know'."

"You know it."

x

"How does the Commander get on with his crew. Any frictions?"

"On a nine billion dollar project? You kidding me?"

"Who has the most friction?"

"Why?"

"We have word that some…" have to be careful now, "tensions may be due to boil over."

"Oh. Well, I wouldn't say it means much."

"What?"

"Well, if it's friction, there's only one person that comes to mind, only one person that gives him agita, at least that I've ever heard him talk about.

"What's his name?"

"Lieutenant Jud Santillo. They've never gotten along, but if there's a root to their dislike I've never heard it. Then again, both of them outranking me I probably never will."

"Simmering things sometimes boil over," Bishop points out.

"Whatever there is, it is _way_ above my pay grade. I'm just an Assistant slash Office Manager slash Yeoman slash Jane of all Trades and Mistress of two or three."

"Anyone else have a beef with Kingman?"

"I'm not even saying Lt. Santillo has. I'm just saying that there's friction and it's not my place to ask. If Commander Kingman wants me to know, I'm sure he'll tell me."

"Where do we find Santillo?"

"Section D41."

xxx

"Not now I don't, not since Lieutenant _Commander_ Kingman bit the big one," is how Judson Santillo replies to Gibbs' eventual question, after several minutes of conversation, about the job which in turn led to the subject of friction within the team and whether he had experienced some among his associates. The examination of Kingman's office had yielded nothing of note. Before they leave they will make a more detailed search but for now this conversation seems to have the potential of bearing fruit. Santillo looks very tired; what has he been up doing last night? "Or should I say the big one bit him?"

If alarm bells were truly audible they'd be deafening.

"You don't seem broken up over it," Bishop says. Neither of them has mentioned that he's dead and that that was the reason for Captain Blain's Epsilon order as he, Carpenter and Shepherd had cut off leaks through the media.

"I'm not. Bastard had it coming."

Santillo is a small man, in body and more. Tall enough to clear regulations but he carries himself like a tightly coiled watch spring. Gibbs wonders if the man will wind down or go ' _sproing_ ' and be fit for little more than the can.

"You were directly under him, weren't you?" Bishop asks.

"My duties had me listed after him, I reported to him, but no _way_ was I 'under' him."

"How'd that feel?" The declaration had been feeling centered, so she wants to keep Santillo focused there. When a man's focused on feelings, he tends to make stupid mistakes. She wonders if that should be her own Rule– she'd had a few before meeting her new boss and finding that he has many. What is this one now? 9?

"Kingman was an LC, that's the only reason he was in charge of this section. I've forgotten more than he's ever learned."

"Life's a bitch, isn't it?"

"Something's a bitch. But now that he's gone there can be some much needed shake-ups in this place."

She's not sure how familiar he is with how the Navy runs. "What if your new boss is worse than your old one?"

"Can't be," Santillo declares and the agents exchange covert glances. "I'm not saying Kingman was stupid, but that I've got a Terrier that's smarter."

Gibbs, sitting back and observing this round, expects the animal is smarter than its owner. It would at least have a sense of self-preservation. The man seems determined to fly in the face of self-incrimination. Even for an innocent man, this is a foolhardy tactic.

"Where were you this morning, at oh three hundred?" he asks. No need to go into specifics.

"Not killin' Kingman, if that's what you're leading up to. I didn't need to."

"Felt the need, didn't you?" Bishop asks.

"Nope, not when the guy was stupid enough to walk in front of a car."

x

Gibbs keeps his smile private. "How did you know?" he asks, ready to reel in a marlin.

"What?"

"How did you know he was hit by a car?"

"You told me."

"Not even your CO knew until we told him. No one but you even knows he's dead."

"What?"

"Gag order. Epsilon." He watches the color fall from Santillo's face. "So how do you know?"

"I - ah - must've heard it from someone. Scuttlebutt, you know?"

"Scuttlebutt? Your department commander's dead and you find out from scuttlebutt?"

He'll follow this line. Santillo's increasingly nervous and he might reel in two marlins. "Who told you?"

"I must've heard it. You know?"

"Bishop?" The woman steps forward, handcuffs clattering as they're pulled from the rear pocket of her jeans. She steps around Santillo, pulls his left arm back as she passes.

"Hey, come on, wait a minute, guys."

"Why?"

Bishop smiles. The show-stopping question is more art than science and this one should yield interesting results - if the man thinks fast enough.

"'Cause I didn't do anything."

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

"Then how did you know he walked in front of a car?"

A blank stare is never a good answer. He doesn't know what motive Santillo has, but while they look for it the man can contemplate his fate in Holding.

xxx

"Whatever motive Lieutenant Santillo has," McGee says, typing on his keyboard as the pair enters the bullpen from placing Jud Santillo in his new quarters, his words in answer to the assignment given while the agents were on their way in, "it's not promotion." Santillo's official Service portrait, together with the summary of his record, appears on the plasma screen. "Not only is he not being considered for advancement but his record shows that despite any good he brought to the job in his early days he's now holding on to a thread. Nothing that'd get him DeeDeed but he doesn't have much to distinguish himself. At his rate he'll use up his days and be someone else's private sector problem."

"Plenty of motives other than promotion," Ellie points out. "I like money."

"Don't we all?" Gibbs says.

"Well, you're not going to like this, boss."

"Whenever you say that, McGee, I start out hating it."

"Then you're really going to detest this." He pushes a key and the plasma screen view changes to a medium view of a woman holding a ZNN microphone. It's an indoor shot but through a window behind her the street is still night shrouded, making her brightly lit image the result of a high powered camera light. To Palmer who has already seen it the background also shows a too familiar intersection. She's not sure how Gibbs feels regarding this, but she is sure she hates it more. This had been filmed last night and, since she came on at 0600, Officer Erica Caldon hadn't mentioned a word about it.

Too many colored strobe lights from Metro RMPs, Ambulance and the DC Coroner's office turn the scene through the window into a macabre festive venue. The white lettered banner at the bottom of the screen identifies the woman as Rachael Ursa.

Since Gibbs has one Reporter he likes, he's less concerned with who she is as what she'll say but he's sure he already knows. When the image comes to life, he wishes gag orders came with actual clamps.

x

"George, we're here off the intersection of P Northwest and 6th where, an hour ago, Gilbert Kingman was struck and killed by an unidentified vehicle which subsequently fled the scene. We're in the home of Mrs. Elizabeth Halvorsen, a witness who called ZNN prior to Metro Police having issued an order blocking us from the scene but we managed to reach here by a back yard route to bring you this report." She beckons and an elderly woman steps into the frame. "We've learned from Mrs. Halvorsen that Gilbert Kingman is a Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy–"

At Gibbs' sharp signal McGee stops the playback.

"That film has run several times since this morning," McGee says.

Bishop decides she might as well say it. "Lieutenant Santillo could have learned about Kingman by..." But she stops at his upraised hand. "Gibbs?"

"Rule 66." Okay, in a week he hasn't taught her more than the first thirty; maybe Kate Todd had been right and he should have a printed list to memorize. "Never speculate a problem into a worse one." He steps toward the bullpen exit. "Keep Santillo on ice."


	8. Expert Witness

Chapter Eight  
Expert Witnesses

Gibbs steps through the glass and metal pneumatic doors, displeased once again, this time to see two blue scrubs clad doctors working on the corpse of Lt. Cmdr. Kingman. Jimmy Palmer has the day off and the one with back to him is definitely too short. That this is no different than he'd anticipated does nothing to improve his mood.

The newcomer turns and pushes up the clear plastic face shield with her forearm. "Special Agent GIBBS!" she exclaims in characteristic delight. She flings her arms wide in presentation. "I'm _baaa-ack_ ," she sings.

"So I see," he answers with as little tone as he can manage as he approaches the table, stopping beyond her reach.

She gives an excellent impression that his lack of reaction is not going to bring her down by one iota. The fact that it never does does help her position. "I've missed you."

"Saw you two weeks ago." At the Awards dinner.

"I _know_! A whole _tw_ _o weeks_."

He might as well be civil. It's not that she's bad, maybe she can't even help it. "Welcome back. Chicky."

She grins. "I'm so glad you remember. Actually, you're the only one who ever calls me Chicky."

He remembers why. It had been the result of a fight between them that had led to his acknowledgment of her worth. She'd had the courage to stand up to him, and that had earned her his respect, but this is not time for anything but answers.

He looks past her, over her head in fact, to Ducky. How dare the man be grinning at him as though he can read his desire to put distance between himself and Sky, preferably several States? Then he looks down to her.

"What are you doing here?" It's sufficiently short of a demand - for him, though he uses it to express his displeasure without actively calling her out on it. She's not his, she's Ducky's.

"Palmering," she says up to him with a too happy smile.

"Doctor Palmer," Ducky heads off his retort, "is supervising the move into his new home in Rosemont, so I have engaged Doctor Sky's services."

Yes, he knows that and hadn't been able to do much regarding it, but Gibbs reads in those words both a defusing and a gentler reminder of who the young woman's boss is.

He can keep her.

x

He sees she's about to give in to her impulse to hug him (she's more of a hugger than Abby is) and reaches out to her shoulders at arms length but to move her aside. For the first time in quite a few weeks he misses Jimmy Palmer; the man may be annoying but he's never shown any inclination to hug. Probably a better developed sense of survival.

Sky isn't truly bad, in small and very occasional doses; it's that she reminds him of a perpetually too happy puppy. How she and Abby, both so alike, live together in the same four room apartment without mutually self-combusting is a mystery he fears solving, though the DiNozzo-less pool, taken over by Templeton, now stands at over $1,900. The mutual combustion had never been taken as literal but as an acknowledgement of the fact that the two so similar women, when they do fall out, will do so cataclysmically. Some choose Abby and believe that some day Sky will simply no longer be among them and they will find no forensic evidence.

Thus far the women have frustrated every potential winner. His belief is that when the pot grows suitably large the pair will stage a very public blow-up and split the cash.

x

He fixes on Ducky, mentally moving Sky aside as he had physically. "What can you tell me about Kingman?" he asks over the man's dissected body.

Mallard smiles up at him through the mask. "He's dead."

"Duck, please." That was a Sky answer and she's already exhausted all his tolerance. How long does Palmer need to move three rooms into a house? Could he possibly finish by this afternoon?

Mallard raises the shield, evidently having decided to show mercy. "Commander Kingman suffered severe trauma; compound and comminuted fractures–"

"That's where a break is all over the bone or it's crushed," Sammy puts in from beside him.

"Thank you," he says without kindness.

"You're welcome," she assures him with a broad smile and enough kindness for both of them.

He has a policy that covers head slapping anyone not on his own team and considers bringing the girl on board for two seconds. Jimmy Palmer occasionally cuts in on his conversations with Ducky but he at least has enough sense of self-preservation to withdraw from a glare; he doubts Sky has as much sense.

No, that's unfair and undeserved. She does have good sense but he's not sure she has the ability to be intimidated so he doesn't bother to try.

x

"How did he die?" he asks Ducky.

"How didn't he? Pneumothorax, ruptured spleen, bruised liver; his left kidney, large intestine and stomach were all severely damaged."

"We found several paint chips embedded in the Commander's trousers," Sammy tells him.

"I had Sammy bring them up to Abby." He imagines that moment to be pretty routine; they live together. Then again, any contact of Sciuto and Sky generally throws 'routine' into the compost. "Measurements of the various breaks in his legs should give us a good idea what kind of car hit him. He had broken and fractured tibias, fibias, femurs; broken ribs, some of which penetrated heart and lungs; fractured cerebral vertebrae and fractured skull.

"So what was the Cause of Death?"

"I haven't figured that out yet."

This halts him for a second. "He broke every bone in his body."

Ducky and Sammy exchange an amused glance that he doesn't get. What could be funny?

"There are so many catastrophic injuries that I haven't determined yet which one to designate the Cause of Death."

"Go out on a limb. How did he die?"

x

He knows Ducky is very reluctant to do this, though not as much as his vacation replacement Maura Isles had been. He'd be freer when they were alone or when it was Palmer, but when it's Sky he's more 'By the Book', not using shortcuts and always testing.

True, Sky's an MD now but he's still very much a Teacher to his Apprentice; and Gibbs has caught him expressing pride in her and no little satisfaction that, at his age, he can still take on another Apprentice. If both Palmer and Sky stay on, while that would be a fearsome thing for Gibbs and may well spur his permanent retirement to Mexico, Ducky's legacy at NCIS is secure.

But that doesn't in any way diminish his friend's role as a most demanding Master. It will be three years, by the Maestro's estimate, before she tacks ME after her MD. Yet even after that day comes and she hangs her sheepskin on some wall, here she'll be an ME when Ducky says she is.

But he doesn't have years to wait and presses enough with his hard stare that his friend _finally_ gives in and makes his ruling:

"He was hit by a car."

xxx

"I'm really sorry to cancel the baseball game," Abby says up to the wall-mounted plasma screen upon which the visage of Henrietta Lange, Operations Manager of L.A.'s Office of Special Projects is displayed. The game was to have been a DC/LA 'Battle of the Giants' to follow DC's 'Battle of the Sexes' early this summer, but life on both sides of the continent had completely derailed those plans.

"Oh, my dear, don't give it another thought. We know what difficulties DC has been dealing with these weeks past. I have not had an opportunity to check: how is Special Agent DuBois?"

If Abby could convey with sad face and crashed shoulders the depth of the catastrophe, she would not have to say "Really bad."

"I had thought she was getting out of Intensive Care shortly."

"Oh, she's out. She's in Recovery but she isn't recover _ing_. It's like… It's like she doesn't _want_ to."

"When one experiences so cataclysmic a loss, when one has invested so much of one's identity, one's self-worth, one's future into one aspect of life and to have that aspect ripped away, sometimes the only response is devastation."

"Those two women - that team - they've suffered so much. Betrayal by their Team Leader who turned out to be a key figure of the McGillicuddy-Crocetti-Morrison gang, who murdered so many Agents, our _Friends_ ; then with three left on the team; Lamb, DuBois and Levy, and Janet Levy is - I'm not going to say 'Sexual Assault', she was _raped_ and _sodomized_ and beaten 9/10's to death. She spent weeks in Recovery, then came those damned Photo Fakes; she was expelled from being a Jew - Cherem they call it – excommunication but deeper, she tried to eat her gun and would have if Ziva and Lisa had gotten there one second later. She nearly resigned, and at practically the same hour she came back Lisa was shot and she lost–." The extent of what Lisa DuBois has lost Abby cannot put into words.

"I am certain she had plenty of help."

Crashing sigh. "She _has_ help. Her team Kevin and Janet, our Psychiatrists Milton Gyves and Kate's sister Rachel Cranston, our Chaplains Rev. Grant and Mother McGee…. It's like a helicopter with catastrophic engine failure; the rotors are going and all these cables are attached and they're trying to hold it up but it's still losing altitude above the rocks and you're watching it going down and you _know_ it's going to crash and you can't– can't–."

Her hand clamped over her lips silences so much.

x

It's some moments when Henrietta, with determination, says "On another subject."

"Yes. Please." She wipes her eyes with her fingertips and Lange pretends not to notice.

"Rumor has it that I am going to have to make severe changes to my Rolodex."

"Oh yes," Abby declares, enlivened and relieved, "but it's making me crazy. I hate changes in my Teams and now I can't keep up. If one more person mentions moving to me I'm going to scream. More people are moving than are staying still. Eight moves; Tony moved south with his brand new fiancé, the McGees took his apartment and his sister is taking their old place; Tony snatched up Tina Larsen to head up Document Analysis, the Palmers are taking her house, moving in today and Susan Grady is taking _theirs_. But Tony also took Ziva with him and we have a new agent at her desk. There has to be a load of pissed off Real Estate Agents in town, because these are all handshake deals."

"Sounds very efficient."

"Maybe, but I'm freaking out."

"Didn't get in on the 'musical residences'?"

"It's not that, Sammy and I are staying put. But I hate change and Gibbs seems to be the only one who isn't going anywhere."

"He does seem to have a core of stability."

"Just set in my ways," Gibbs declares, announcing his arrival via the rear door. "Hello, Hetty."

"Hello, Leroy."

"What's happening on that side of the Mississippi?"

"Keeping tabs on Burgoyne and his Arms empire."

"He still alive?"

"He was as of last night. I had believed he would not last this long, but we live in hope."

He knows all in OSP will celebrate that man's termination, Nell Jones most of all, but "Don't hope for too much. They might get someone competent."

"Amen."

"How's Jones?" First were days of monumental humiliation as an 'Undercover' naked slavegirl at a packed comic book Convention, then to be arrested and accused of murdering her former captor….

"She has good support," is enough to convey a volume. "But I'd best get back to work. The youngsters will be back from the field soon."

"Give them a head slap for me."

"Will do," and with that her image vanishes.

Abby looks to him. "Did you teach her that, or did she you?"

"Great minds think alike."

"No kidding."

x

Standing beside yet a step back, he has a moment to take a note of her attire and feels ambushed by her lack of her white lab coat, as though she'd left it off to trap him with the full effect.

She's wearing her black miniskirt festooned with dozens of large safety pins and a black tee shirt with two large wings displayed, on her right a white dove's wing, on her left a bat's wing. She turns and he sees the rest of the tee shirt is a white halo that rests upon her right breast while a pair of red horns seem to spring from her left breast. Arched over them, starting from white and gradually turning to red is the question 'Dare you turn this Angel into a Devil?'

He decides that, as usual, the best thing to do with one of her outrageous shirts is to ignore it. "What've you got?"

"I got the traffic cam records from McGee and I'm pretty sure I got a good beginning on the license. I'm on a roll, lots of pep and vitality today."

Seeing the stack of used white and red cups in the corner, he knows the source of her energization. "He couldn't raise the plate."

"He's got too many beautiful women distracting him. But shouldn't he be moving today?" It gets so hard to keep track of the moves. Musical residences indeed. She's taken enough pictures over the years that, with shots of the new places set up for their new purposes she can create a musical transition video for some to-be-scheduled party, the old rooms morphing into the new.

"Tomorrow. Wife's running that."

"He's liable to be sorry."

"Doesn't have you and Palmer decorating."

"Ouch. You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Not me. McGee." The parade float they'd created of his desk and the all out effort in his new bride's office with which they'd prepared to greet the still honeymooning couple remain the stuff of legend, the torment of the photo fakes not so much.

Safer to deal with the case. "The car was moving so fast it's a bit of a blur," she says.

"A bit?" He's seen the step by step film and that's especially generous.

"Okay, a lot of a blur. I don't think the lens has been cleaned since… since ever. They probably counted on the rain to do it. It took hours to raise as much of the plate as I did."

"Who does it belong to?"

"You know, Gibbs, there's no foreplay with you."

"My ex-wives' biggest complaints."

"That's because you never came to me for proper training." But his look warns her that her leeway has run out. "Come with me."

x

It's not a long trip around to the front of her free standing workstation where she bends over the microscope; why he doesn't know because at the touch of a button the colorful and multilayered image is displayed on the plasma screen mounted on the wall where they had stood.

It's part of Abby's continuing mystique that she can be simultaneously old school and cutting edge. In fact, a cutting edge is what she uses on the evidence on the slide.

The sample is a flat, irregularly shaped mass, but the edges display layers of color and she carefully separates one blue layer from another of slightly lighter shade. There are more colors distinguishable around the edges. She stops now, and puts the implement beside the microscope. "This is paint taken from the Commander's pants." She turns to her computer. "But you're going to want to hear first what kind of car you're looking for, and then the drugs and alcohol."

"What drugs and alcohol?" Until now, there'd been no mention of them.

"Nada and zilch. He was as sober as a Priest." She grabs his arms, moves him aside so she can peer past him. "Siobhan's not here, is she?"

Is this an effect of a dozen 'Caf-Pow!'s since he doesn't know when? "No."

"Can't be too careful; in high heels she's quieter than you are. Anyway, there was nothing at all in Commander Kingman's blood or urine. He was stone cold sober. Of course, now he's just stone cold–"

"He should have been able to avoid the car," Gibbs says, interpreting the woman's cryptic message, "but so far there's no indication that he did." "There's more, O Silver Fox."

"Give me what you've got."

She smiles at him. "Be careful what you wish for."

x

Maybe he does have to reconsider his stand with her. He's never struck her, but if he could bring Sky onto his team for two seconds he'd welcome Abby even if she didn't appreciate the honored position. "The car."

She shifts over to her keyboard, types quickly and a stick figure graphic appears on the screens. He watches the larger one mounted upon the wall.

The stick figure, presumably Kingman though it's contorted to resemble one of the 'Saint' figures tattooed on her shoulder blades, sans halos, steps away right off a line onto a lower one. It takes a step further away and a large car, seen in outline, comes downward from the figure's left and a prominent bumper hits it. Abby halts the image at the point where the initial impact breaks the upper thigh.

"I got numerous samples from the scene; windshield glass but nothing from a headlight so you're looking for full on impact damage. Now Ducky and Sammy took a slew of measurements," the image resumes slow movement and Kingman is blasted over the car's hood, into windshield, over the top of the vehicle to fall to the trunk, then asphalt and to roll several yards, "and those measurements precisely match only one model car to the necessary 'T'."

"What car?"

She presses other keys and an Advertising image appears with details of the vehicle as Abby announces "A Lincoln MKX."

x

"That's good work, Abs," he says, pulling out his phone. Now he finally has something to put on a BOLO, adding to it a 'Do Not Engage' order. After all this, he doesn't want the finder to make a mistake. Rule #58 often gives him problems if he's not the first one on site: 'No matter how good the plan is, the first thing someone will do is muck it up'.

Impatient to get back to the bullpen and check his team's progress, he starts to turn away but "You ain't seen _nuttin_ yet."

He halts, now anxious to hear the sum of her report. "They found paint fragments ranging from half inch to two thirds, and McGee and Michelle found more and larger at the death site. You know, I love saying that, death site, death site."

"Focus, Abby."

"Death site." She finally notices, in his eyes, that she's run out of leeway - again. "Focused." She changes the image back to the output of her microscope and points to the enlarged image on the screen. "As you know, I had to use the chips from the body rather than the death site -" she tries an unsuccessful smile, "but while these chips can bring the level of evidence, as you _know,_ from Class Evidence to Individualizing Evidence, when I get the car from you I _will_ confirm all are from the same source."

"You can test the paint." This should be 'do it in her sleep' easy.

"It's not just paint," she tells him emphatically

"No?"

"No," she says, gearing up. "It's a lot of different layers. First primer gets applied to the bare metal of the body, that's a mixture of epoxy based resins that provide rustproofing. Next a primer surfacer is applied over that or sometimes mixed with it. The color's dependent upon what the base color is going to be. Then comes the base color coat, and this can be combined with additives if they want a metallic finish.

"The last layer is a clear coat, and that gives the paint a shiny surface. Further, if something is messed up, they'll do it all again, so you might have eight or maybe even more layers - assuming you didn't decide to repaint the car a different color, in which we're talking about way more. Then there's different consistencies and thicknesses.

"Believe me, Gibbs, with so many layers it's no wonder you hide behind open car doors when you get into shootouts." This last is said with enough of a factitious smile, but he at least has a good enough idea of the challenge that faces her. He won't bother her until later.

An hour should do.

x

"What about this car?"

"This car could stop a mortar round. It's been black, it's been silver, it's been mint green, it's been red, it's been forest green, its been light blue, now it's dark blue... you better hurry and find it while it's still blue."

"How often does this happen?"

"This one's set a personal record. Before this I've seen three a few times. This guy either can't make up his mind or–"

"Or he's got a good reason for the changes."

"Objection, your Honor," she declares in an extra officious bass, "calls for speculation on the part of the witness."

"Never stopped you before."

"What would you like to know?"

"The glass?"

"Glass is an amorphous solid made of melted sand often with the addition of soda and lime–"

"Abs?"

"Yes?"

"What's going on?"

"I told you, Gibbs, I have a lot of energy stored up."

"Drain it." She mimes pulling something sharply from her right ear, tilts her head right and gives him a smile only she can get away with. "Done?"

"Not quite."

"Oh, you're done."

"Okay." She uprights her head with the still-too-confident smile and replaces the plug.

x

"Now Humans have known how to make glass for over 5,000 years–"

"When was this batch made?"

"Gibbs, you're not being fun at all."

"You can hit me with two overloads later."

"Count on it. Meantime, I'm running a similarity check because the glass, which is from the wind shield B-T-W, is _not_ from a Lincoln MKX."

"How do you know?"

"There are subtle differences in refractory index, not enough for the layman to notice," he'll give her that, he's never noticed the refractory index of any windshield, "but it can't fool me."

"Goes without saying, Abs."

" _Thank_ you. When you find the car, you'll want to check its history for replacement because the fit is not exact, I give it only a 99% but with filling to keep the wind out so he'll be really annoyed if he doesn't already know. As you know, _I_ maintain a minimum standard of 100% and you have to go pretty high over that to make me smile, or so Sammy has often teased me. You always make me smile, Gibbs."

"Thank you."

"De Nada. In the meantime that, together with the PDQ Database, that's Paint Data Query to the layman, which has data on over 50,000 known paints, will narrow the search to one vehicle. Believe me, Gibbs, you bring me a car and I'll give you a Conviction."

When he finds the car it will have to have the proper tires (if they haven't been removed) the dented grill and fender, broken windshield and blood on hood, top and trunk. But it has been most of a day since the murder and how lucky will he be that the perp who planned a pinpoint murder is stupid enough to leave the vehicle in that condition?

"Good luck."

"Since when do you wish me luck?"

"Since you revamped your team."


	9. Pit Bull Stop

Chapter Nine  
Pit Bull Stop

Gibbs steps into I1 and Lieutenant Judson Santillo is immediately on his feet. "Listen, you've gotta believe me. I did _not_ kill Lieutenant Commander Kingman!"

He sounds sincere, at least more respectful of the dead Senior Officer, but what Gibbs wants to know is "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why should I believe you? A while ago you seemed set on making yourself the chief suspect."

"Okay, I wasn't thinking. I was pissed, because lots of my ideas he took credit for, but I didn't have any good reason to kill him. Hell, with him dead I'll never get the proper credit. I wasn't thinking before, but I am now."

For the first time, Santillo has said something Gibbs believes. However, it doesn't mean he didn't kill Kingman, just that he had a very bad reason. "Where were you at three o'clock this morning?"

"In a bar, from eleven to after four thirty, yet another reason why I wasn't thinking too good."

Even in DC there aren't a vast number of bars doing much business after four. Bartenders get tired too, and after a certain hour booze doesn't carry so well. "Which one?"

"Royal, on B."

He's heard of it but has never had the desire to go there, fortunately never in the line of duty. It _is_ a late night place and booze isn't the only thing that flows. The entertainment doesn't dress well but the customers never do mind. "Anyone see you?"

"Only Tiffany, Luscious, Chrystal, Star and Diamond, though I doubt they cared enough to notice me. Money's tight these days and other guys were tipping better than I could."

He'll have this story checked out. Maybe McGee; he took a beating at the last bar he was in so he decides to throw him a treat. He can go alone, but he'll set a one hour limit.

"What credit do you feel Kingman took?"

"Well, there was the...uh..."

"Bit short on specifics, aren't you?" Santillo hadn't begun to look less like a suspect, but if he'd been in the man's position and had decided to use misdirected credit as a motive for _not_ killing someone, he'd have a laundry list of grievances ready to pull out.

The longer the conversation lasts, the worse it is for Santillo. However, this still doesn't settle the question of guilt for Gibbs. The man can't be as clueless as he appears if he works for the Pentagon, despite inclinations to believe otherwise regarding those willing to work in a building that cannot get the number of sides right.

If Santillo were guilty, Gibbs hopes he'd have thought far enough in advance to give a convincing, or at least a reasonable, alibi. The best part of this is that few people ever do.

xxx

When Gibbs reaches the bullpen an unilluminating half hour later, Ellie is speaking on her phone but there are two Agents left to target and no dearth of questions.

"Boss," McGee calls across the bullpen to Gibbs, "we have a hit on the BOLO on the car that hit Commander Kingman."

He's at the agent's desk in a moment. "Show me."

Tim's caught a bit off. He doesn't have anything to show yet, but quickly types the orders to put on the large screen what he does have. "When Abby identified the car as a Lincoln MKX, I put out the BOLO for that type of vehicle."

Gibbs is waiting at the screen, and his patience is worn. "I know that, McGee. I'm the one who told you to."

"Right, boss, I told you there was no working traffic camera at that intersection." The glare he gets is Gibbs' number 5: 'tell me something I don't know - _now_ '. "But having the Make of car we got this from Metro: a unit is there now, parked down the block on 7th off O." He manages to get the image up, he suspects, one second before Gibbs would have dragged it out of his throat. The site is a diagonal block south and east from the 'accident' scene; which is why the car didn't pass any camera after the non-working one on O and 6th.

They see a black or deep blue MKX, the front end dented and windshield broken in the center.

"I traced the license to a Simon Ramjanian."

He's ready when Gibbs returns to his desk and retrieves his jacket, ID and weapon, and is on the man's heels as they leave the bullpen, leaving the women at the diagonal corners.

xxx

The trip is brief, as are most journeys when Gibbs has his teeth into progress on a case. DC's speed limit is 25 but he has always considered that to exclude casework. McGee keeps his grip tight on the support strap hanging beside him which Tony had finally gotten the boss to install and wonders if Gibbs should run NASA's tests for astronauts seeking to try their endurance - or their courage.

The senior agent doesn't put the car into a screeching stop, it's a three G deceleration that threatens to have Tim's seat belt divide him in three as he brings the yellow and black Hemi beside the short driveway and MKX standing on the wide cement outside the garage, the damaged front facing outward.

"That's it," Tim confirms, reading the license, yet considering the vehicle's condition the confirmation was unnecessary. The front windshield is broken, a large hole in the center spread to a spider's web of cracks, the bumper and grill dented and the dark blood splotches up the front and top. Further down the street two Metro officers step out of their patrol car and approach.

Eyes on the gift evidence, "What's wrong with this picture?" Gibbs asks his S.F.A.

"You mean besides having been in a deadly hit-and-run a diagonal block from here and it's parked outside the garage and facing the street?"

"Well, yeah, McGee, besides that."

McGee grins. "Nothing at all."

Gibbs glances to him, decides he's right and the men get out.

x

While Gibbs speaks to the Officers Tim steps to the front of the vehicle, pulls out his cell phone and takes several pictures. There are splotches of blood on the roof and more on the trunk.

As he completes a circuit of the car the house's front door opens and a middle aged man in grey pants and a tee shirt that's seen better days steps out. "Excuse me?" the man asks with little kindness and less patience. "Can I _help_ you?"

Gibbs and the uniformed men step up to the door. "Simon Ramjanian?"

"That's me. Who are you?"

He lets his shield and ID provide the first answers as McGee completes his task and joins them at the step. The uniforms of the two Metro Police Officers had spoken for themselves. When the introductions are complete he asks the first almost unnecessary but establishing question. "That your vehicle, Mr. Ramjanian?" The front is too far forward to be seen from the doorway.

"Yeah. So?"

"It was involved in a Hit-and-Run at three o'clock this morning."

"No, it's been right there all night - and day."

"Would you come with me, sir?" McGee asks.

The quartet boxes the man in as they escort him to the front of the car.

"No!" Ramjanian cries when he sees the damage. "What the" Gibbs hasn't heard some of these words since the Corps, " _happened_ to it?"

McGee knows there's no official Rule 72 yet, Gibbs had never written it down back then but Kate Todd had once related to him how Gibbs, aboard Air Force One, had told her that 'an innocent person can't pale, or in this case purple, at will', so he'll at least add it to his own list. That would be 19.

"When did you see the car last?" Gibbs asks.

"This - This morning. It - it's my Saturday. I parked about one in the morning, went to bed, what the &%$# happened?"

xxx

Over an hour later, past the turning of the shift clock from Alpha to Beta, not that that has ever mattered to Gibbs, the Senior Investigator enters I2 and Simon Ramjanian leaps to his feet. "Will you _listen_ to me?"

"Go ahead," he invites at one fifth the volume.

"I didn't do anything!"

"Sit down." He takes his own chair and tosses a Case File folder onto the table between them. He prefers to keep the man off balance, which is why he's given the impression that he's paid no attention to the man's so far forty two protestations of innocence. An agitated suspect is a careless one and Ramjanian may well say something quite revealing if he gets upset enough.

However, on this occasion he's conflicted. In addition to the very odd placement of the car, and he will await later evidence of the man's sobriety early this morning if Abby can get anything at all (doubtful but she is their Miracle Worker), he has seen and C.S.U. has reported that the front seat of the car had been showered with shards of glass but, other than the expected void spot in the driver's seat, the few bits of glass outside the car had made a short trail along the sidewalk rather than in a direct line to Ramjanian's front door, despite the tamped down grass that showed that path to be well used.

C.S.U. will continue their inspection of the house for more glass, and also gather any evidence of drink, drugs or anything else that allows the man to insist he knows nothing of Kingman's death.

Bishop has run the man's history, which contains multiple DUI arrests as well as a three month long License suspension. Of course, proving intoxication over twelve hours ago will be difficult - if Abby can't do it he'll concede it's impossible - but he wants to trace Ramjanian's movements last night.

For now this interview will lay the ground work. There will be time to tighten the noose.

When Ramjanian is seated, the fear in his eyes is almost tangible.

"Do you know Gilbert Kingman?"

"No. I mean I heard of him, a couple of times today, the news had the traffic thing on a couple of times, but to think my car had anything to do with it…. This is impossible."

x

Gibbs, without opening the folder, slides out a color photo of the MKX, seen from the left, when the NCIS tow truck had backed it into the below ground forensic garage.

The second photo, a straight on shot showing bloody, dented grill, bumper and front plus the holed and webbed windshield, is far more damning.

"I'm curious. We found 7 different color paints on your car. What's with that?"

The lead question, as intended, catches him off guard but he answers "My wife, she can't make up her damn mind. Costing me a fortune."

Gibbs says nothing. He can think of several reasons for multiple and widely varied paint jobs, none of them having to do with wives.

In the meantime he has Method: Check. Opportunity: Double check. He's very interested in Motive. Jud Santillo has that; have they now found the first two? They should look into a link between Santillo and Ramjanian, or simply as Santillo as the driver of a stolen car.

He touches the picture showing the front of the vehicle and predicts another color change in the large vehicle's future, presuming Ranjanian ever gets close to the vehicle again.

"Want to explain this?" He'll begin with the pseudo-question, then bear down.

"That wasn't me. I put the car in the garage last night - this morning - whatever, one o'clock or so. It was fine."

"In it?"

"In it."

"Door closed?"

Long thought for so simple a question. "I don't know. I'm not sure."

"You take it out again? Say before three?"

"I was in bed. It wasn't _me_."

"You sure about the time?" He slides a Police Report out of the still unopened folder. It cites one Simon Ramjanian with DWI in April when his license had been suspended until June.

"Where did you get that?"

Gibbs' 'stupid question' expression is plain.

"That was one time."

x

The reverse order deal stacks two more Aprils, three for March, a February and two Januaries. "You usually like the Wicked Warlock," Gibbs tells the man, clearly further undermining him. "That's where you'd been in each of these reports. When we interview the staff, I wonder what time they'll tell us you left the bar."

"I _told_ you! I got home and was in bed by _One_ o'clock!"

Gibbs won't bother contesting that. He'll have Palmer check. In the meantime, Abby's working on the car. "The Wicked Warlock is north of the Hit-and-Run site. You were traveling south from there to home when you struck and killed Lieutenant Commander Gilbert Kingman."

"I was in _bed_! It wasn't _me_!"

"You saying someone stole your car?"

"Yeah!"

"Then drove it south past JFK Park and hit Commander Kingman."

"Yeah!"

"Then parked it back in your driveway."

" _Ye_ –!" Horror mounts on Ramjanian's face and he's silent for many moments. When he can speak, his tone is as dead as Kingman. "I think I want a Lawyer."

Gibbs gathers the papers back into the folder, gets up and heads to the door. "Good call."

x

As he walks along the orange cinderblock corridor he considers the options. If Ramjanian is telling the truth, and the man evidently believes he is, far fetched though his alibi is, it doesn't remove suspicion from Lieutenant Santillo, who does have half a motive, nonsensical though it seems, for killing Kingman.

Does Ramjanian have the other half?

This is not satisfactory at all. A drunken accident or the only one so far with half a motive stole Ramjanian's MKX, did Kingman and put the car back again.

xx

Abby steps through the sliding door into Autopsy as Ducky closes the door to Cooler 9. Sammy steps out through the mirrored storeroom door, already in her baby blue 'date' outfit. She can't criticize, not while wearing her Angel/Devil tee shirt. Sammy and Ducky are winding down for the day whereas she has plenty more evidence to process. She only wants to remind her roommate that if things go well for her she is Not to forget to put the lit candle in the window like she had when she'd been a 'French Maid'. "Hi Ducky, S–."

" _ABBY_!" echoes between the walls as Sammy, in a blast of delight, runs to her on the toes of her clothes-matching baby blue high heels and grabs her hand before she can shy away. She drags her across the room to where Ducky rises from before his desk. "Wait'll you _Hear_! It's so _Incredible_! You're not going to _Believe_ it! You are not going to _Freaping Believe It_!"

"Sammy, slow down," she appeals, knowing the effort is hopeless.

"But it's so Incredible! I waited all Day for you to Hear!" She turns to the equally stunned man. " _Tell_ her! Oh Tell Her _Quick_ before the surprise wears off!" The woman is bouncing in her own skin.

"What, you two get engaged? Congratulations."

" _NO_! Don't be _Silly_! I'm talking the _Best News Ever_!"

Abby had said it in an effort to derail her friend but she's quite derailed already and running far afield of the tracks. Sammy lives in a dimension of ecstasy but now, excited as she is, she seems on the verge of that self-combustion gamblers have been anticipating for months. "That's not it at _ALL_!" She turns back to Ducky. " _Tell_ her! Tell her _Now_! _HURRY_!"

"But you seem to be doing so well," he quips.

" _NO_! _You_ have to tell her!" She's jumping between them. "Abby, when you hear this _You're Gonna_ _FREAK!_ "

Abby flings her arms around her friend, not to hug but to pin her arms to her sides in an effort to keep her from bouncing away. "Ducky, before you have to use an elephant tranquilizer on this one, what's going on?"

"Well, Abby, I have been thinking for some time that–"

" _HE'S GIVING US HIS HOUSE_!"

x

With that scream Sammy had deafened Abby and bounded out of her grip. It takes a second to absorb this while recapturing and holding the woman on Earth.

Ducky has had quite enough and steps up to her, hands to either side of her face holding her firmly. "Calm," he orders her in iron tones, making certain he has her full attention. "Down."

The effect is near magical as Sammy comes to a stop, her voice level. "Yes, sir."

"Ducky?" Abby must put this amazement aside to get a handle on the other. "Did she just say you're giving...?" It's too wild to say.

"The issue is rather overstated." While the pair glare the Apprentice into silence lest she go off again, Ducky outlines the conversation he'd had with Sammy this morning. There will be a thousand details to cover and the process will take days, the conclusion of which being that Ducky will lease or sell the property, one of the details, to the women in favor of a townhouse in Georgetown not near the Palmer's former residence. At the end they reach a preliminary understanding.

Neither had given much thought to continued restraint of the blonde woman who, at the final word of agreement, lets loose a long held ecstatic shriek and clutches Ducky in a wildly ecstatic hug. Abby takes his other side, the compression threatening his respiration.

They break only in time for him to avoid asphyxia but then join one another in a jumping paroxysm of shrill delight.

Ducky puts his hand to his forehead, holds and supports his head, listens to the climactic, high pitched cries of the bounding women and wonders what he has done to himself.


	10. Royally Wicked Plot

Chapter Ten  
Royally Wicked Plot

The Wicked Warlock's theme - Michelle Palmer detests theme bars and this one quadruply so - is exactly what the public would be led to believe. She who had helped Abby with the decorating of McGee's desk and his wife's office would still never indulge in such an appalling orgy of ketch.

It starts with a life size, were that possible, painting of Baphomet over the bar with monks paying homage at its hairy hooves. From there she counts more extended point inverted pentagrams than she thinks her Wiccan temple has pentacles throughout it's three stories. The inverted emblems, lowermost point elongated, are an unwelcome and aggravating sight. The rest of the bar… if she could do this interview with closed eyes she would.

The place is such a hodgepodge of 'mystical' symbols that the entire bar is an incomprehensible mess. She feels like an Egyptologist confronted by walls festooned with hieroglyphs assembled by a drugged out acid freak or by a total Neo who put the images in an order he thought was 'pretty'. She sees so many faux 'spells' and 'incantations' that trail off into nonsense, a collected gobbledygook that forces her to immediately give up.

It had been obvious from the moment she'd received the assignment that she is dealing with posers and they hadn't bothered to do the first iota of research: a male Witch is a Witch, only television and those raised on a steady diet of TV pablum say 'Warlock'.

Hoping no one is watching she reaches to her blouse, to the inch wide silver Wiccan Circle/Star and slips it between two buttons, leaving the silver chain reaching down to nothing. Much better this than to be imagined associating with this, what does Jimmy say, feldercarb?

She has only ever once stepped into a Left Hand Path temple on an especially unpleasant case and had had to serve as interpreter for the team while trying not to look and fighting a queasy stomach - and that place had been subtle by comparison.

In fact she feels a little the same way now and decides that if Su Lin had even vestigial legs at under a month she'd be kicking her mommy.

x

"What'll it be?" the black shirted bartender asks. From a chain hanging from his neck he wears a silver cross but this one is inverted such as had been used on St. Peter which scores him no points and confirms that she would never come here with Mother McGee – if she were ever to darken this door again.

Yet she picks up and peruses the menu laying before her. 'A paying patroness can sometimes get somewhere … and I can always expense it,' she concludes when her eyes light upon the prices. But names like 'Bishop's Cock' make her decide it really isn't worth it. It will take much to get her to ask for that concocktion by name. She also firmly avoids thought of Ellie, though 'Nun's Pussy' is no improvement. Before she can put the laminated paper down her gaze hits 'Titillated Twat' and she's done.

"Do you know this man?" She displays an image drawn from the Holding cell when Ramjanian had stood still long enough.

"Depends on who's asking."

She scans the sparsely occupied bar, black being the defining color. 'Abby would _not_ feel comfortable here.' Sometimes even in a respectable bar a gold shield can have a negative effect, but she pushes aside décor, menu and disgust. She has been issued, by the Goddess, with much more useful equipment and it serves her well.

"The most beautiful woman in here."

"While that's true, I'm afraid you're wasting your effort, good though it may be. I'm afraid you have the wrong equipment,"

"Oh."

"So you might as well badge me and we can get down to business."

xx

When she leaves, both disgusted and suitably embarrassed by her presence on this site (she'd do a Cleansing if her equipment weren't boxed and - she checks her watch - in her Sanctum Sanctorum in Rosemont) and glad this had been a solo run, she heads back to her car, determined to offer a heavily edited report.

But the trip, short as it was, hadn't been wasted, though the news she'll offer isn't pleasant. Simon Ramjanian, a regular fixture here - and probably the only thing in the long room deserving of the name - had been here last night.

Unfortunately, he hadn't been here late enough. The bartender remembers he'd left, barely lit up, about half past midnight, which supports his One a.m. bedtime statement.

If he's a regular here she has no intention of being in the small Interrogation room with him. If he goes for the drinks, fine. If he goes for the décor she holds little hope for him. If he goes for more she does not want to know except - blast it - she must.

She had not refused the assignment of tracking down alibis, had never thought to refuse, but next time she will be far more discriminating when she hears things like 'Wicked Warlock'.

The next bar on her list is the Royal on B street, Judson Santillo's alibi. What is it with guys and bars when they're supposed to be home asleep? But at the very least this next one should be a lot nicer. Special Agent Gibbs had assigned Tim to that venue, he'd assigned her because she was already checking a bar and it would be duplication of effort. He'd also said that Siobhan would not like him going to a bar and so, without elaboration she'd hardly needed, she'd agreed to take the Royal off his hands.

She can certainly understand his wife's position; while she doesn't mind the occasional social drink such as with the Girls at the Nights Out, and used to go with Jimmy to Leo's until she'd gotten pregnant and he'd firmly rapped the gavel on any alcohol. What he doesn'tknow about the G.N.O.s won't hurt her, but she doesn't want him indulging in the bar scene without her. Who knows what can happen?

xxx

When Gibbs enters the Forensics Lab the first thing he notices is that Abby has changed her tee shirt. She usually stays with one message or image for a day, though when the mood hits her she'll change the message so this catches his attention. This one is a black shirt with a single white line of capitals across her chest. It might go with the white neck and wrist bands with the white stars, but not for him.

::NEVER FGEROT TO DGEAFR YOUR HDRA IDERV::

It takes a moment to translate the anagrams to 'forget', 'defrag' and 'hard drive' and decides he hadn't known when he was well off with the Angel / Devil tee. "Why'd you change your shirt?"

"Sammy tore the other one."

"Why'd she tear the other one?" he asks, warned by his inner voice that he would hate the answer.

"She got excited over Ducky." He was right. He gives her a long suffering stare that completely fails to diminish her smile.

"Well, at least this one's not so bad."

That smile broadens. "Wait'll you see what Sammy has printed on her pink panties."

He never wants to know.

"What have you got, Abs?"

She adds extra sauce to her tone. "On what?"

If she's thinking of her own panties he'll…. "Simon Ramjanian's car."

"Of course, how silly of me not to think you'd be on a four o'clock case at six seventeen. Actually I do have something to give you but I promise to hit you with it after the case because one of us has to have mercy so it'll have to be me."

"Appreciated."

She crosses the room to her office, he virtually on her heels. She opens her desk drawer, reaches under her long hair and unsnaps the white throat band with the star, then the matching wrist bands and drops all three into the drawer. She fishes out the black leather set with the sharp silver spikes which proclaims her warrior self. May Heaven help the evidence that doesn't yield up its mysteries. She snaps the formidable set about her throat and wrists and turns to him. "Ready," she announces.

"Set go."

x

"The car is definitely the murder car. The paint layers were a positive match and I matched three chips to their original locations. The blood is Gilbert Kingman's type, A+. The bad news is Ramjanian was not driving."

"You're sure." This goes along too well with what he's learned so far from Palmer's call but he'd had hope.

"The seat is too far back for Ramjanian by at least three inches. I did lift a set of fingerprints from the back of the rear view mirror that were not Ramjanian's. Whoever adjusted the mirror didn't put it back when he was done, probably never checked the angle before changing it. Ninety nine point nine nines of car thieves don't.

"Seat position depends on the length of legs, rear view mirrors upon the size of the torso. All I can tell you definitely is you're looking for someone on the upper side of tall."

"Upper side of tall."

"Uh huh. Now Ramjanian's five foot six according to his license. You're looking for someone better than six feet, maybe six two but don't quote me on that."

"Who else would I quote?"

"Abraham Lincoln."

"On car rear view mirrors?" He glances around the office, but there are two red and white pint 'Caf-Pow!' cups - in here; the dozen are gone but are these leftovers – unlikely – or two fresh ones? He hasn't checked the lab and doesn't want to.

"On the length of a man's legs. Someone supposedly once asked him how long a man's legs should be, and Abe's answer was 'long enough to reach the ground'."

x

He grasps her right hand, raises it, unsnaps the studded leather strap and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. "You haven't earned it."

He's annoyed because this also excludes Lieutenant Jud Santillo, bringing his suspect list to zero. Truth be told, he hadn't been thrilled with Santillo in the role of suspect. He'd fit the part too well to have been their target. "Whose prints are on the mirror?"

"Sorry, Gibbs. I have four full fingers on back, thumb on the glass, beautiful clarity and whoever it was he's not in the system. I went through Criminal Databases in DC, Virginia and Maryland and I'm still spreading out."

He captures her left arm, brings up her wrist, unsnaps the strap and pushes it in to join its counterpart.

Abby smiles. "Strip Reports. I'm game."

"We'll see. What else did you get?"

"The handle didn't have any usable prints, not that they'd have helped, not if I can't find anything on AIFIS."

"What else?"

She considers for a moment, then it's clear she's holding back a smile. "Absolutely nothing." He reaches under her hair and takes away her collar. His pocket bulges.

"Oh, yes, I forgot. I did find some brown fibers on the driver's seat."

"Pants? Shirt?"

"Pants."

"What kind? Work paints, dress?"

"You know, Gibbs, I can't really say for sure. I mean, I have Major Mass Spec running them, but it'll probably take hours. Like I always tell you, you can't rush Science." He gives her a hard glare, it's 1830 but she smiles more broadly, grasps the bottom of her black tee shirt and starts to lift.

He walks out, tosses the straps onto her outer table.

xxx

Michelle, on seeing her destination, the Royal [Totally Nude! Best Girls In Town! Your Fantasies Fulfilled!] at the far end of B Street, is deeply annoyed to find a dimmer and far less respectable world than at the Wicked Warlock. She is ready to find someone to hurt and understands Tim's concern now, certain that Siobhan would not like this, but a little warning would have been nice.

'Okay. Nude. I've been to the gāisï gym.' However, though the women there are hot it's for an entirely different reason; they're there to work off pounds, not estrogen.

She's not a prude and would be the first one to deny it. True she doesn't attend Skyclad ceremonies at the Temple but that's different. And Jimmy does work on naked women but that's _really_ different. And –

'Oh Hades, just get it _over_ with!'

She must halt beyond the pneumatically closed door until she can discern the equally pneumatic entertainment.

'Tim, you nuòfū, when I get back I am going to _Kill_ you.'

Better yet, it's late; finish here in record time and go see her new and furnished house, file the pào hōng report in the morning.

x

In the past few months she has been compelled to seek professional Anger Management aid, this for both her occasionally explosive issues and because of her training in her special talents that need careful self-control. She's come to realize (okay, she knew it in her head before but had ignored it in her heart) that a Witch who cannot control her emotions, especially the darker ones, is a danger to herself and others. These sessions have helped somewhat even though Wicca is a closed book to her Therapist, but she feels that those lessons are to be truly tested.

Spotlights focus attention on the unclothed gyrations of four women on four small round tables, each surrounded by too attentive men. All that the women wear are garters placed far higher than she's ever worn one, high enough for the frills to brush labia and each decorative elastic band fans out dollar bills. The women writhe artlessly (that is at least one satisfaction, she's given Jimmy infinitely better and more rewarding shows) to the call of Andrea True's 'More More More How Do You Like It?' (not like that, she thinks) but her eyes are not yet adjusted to the rest of the room when a silhouette to her right asks "You here to see the boss?"

She hasn't heard that uber-suggestive track in years and decides she can go for many years longer. "Yes."

"This way."

x

Concentrating upon navigating the dimness behind the man she's beginning to make out allows her to not see the entertainment beyond a single glance. They're not Skyclad as she never works her Ceremonies, these women are just nude and she fails to see the attraction, even in the one girl, not woman, crouched before her customer, her legs spread from nine to three while he tries to make a cash deposit. Unfortunately, in that one glance she has not watched her guide and she steps though a horizontal spotlight beam which reblinds her. She manages to keep her opinion to a whisper as she rubs her abused right eye.

Her left eye vision has adjusted enough to see the black door an instant before it's pushed open. The inner office is not as dim, the upshot being that she can see again. The desk is to her left beyond the still open door, a defensible position when coupled with the huge angled mirror on the right wall. She must step in further to see her host directly before the door is closed. Had she not scanned the room with the aid of months of Risk Assessment Training (Gibbs is a hard taskmaster) she'd have missed that mirror and would have been at a sharp disadvantage.

x

"New one, boss," her black escort tells the older man now seated before her.

"I am not–"

"This is how you dress?" cuts her off. Automatically her gaze drops down to her brown mid length skirt and forest green blouse, Earth colors, but she doesn't have a moment to recover. He looks her over from crown to as far as he can see past the desk and pronounces "Geisha."

" _Excuse_ me?" The only one who gets away with calling her a Geisha is Jimmy, and then only when making a request. She has a small closet and looks forward now to having a large one.

"Geisha. That'd be perfect for you."

"Geisha is Japanese, I'm Chinese." She's glad she'd dropped the silver pentacle behind her blouse ever since having seen the inverted cross worn at the last place.

"Chink, Jap, who gives a shit?" Say that to either when you really want pain; I'm working. "Guys pay for fantasy, and a little Oriental pussy goes a long way. You got a Geisha outfit?"

" _No_." 'You're allowed to mislead suspects and to lie to the stupid.'

"Okay, music's playing." True is still asking how she likes it and she doesn't. Can it be less than a minute she's been in here? Feels like an hour. "Strip."

" _Excuse_ me?" This has started off badly and is spiraling out of control.

"Let's see your boobs and pussy." No, the Anger Management sessions are really being tested today.

She pulls from her skirt pocket her black leather case along with the small photograph of Simon Ranjanian. "Why don't we start with this?" When she opens the case the light from his desk lamp reflects back and she tilts it to make it flash in his eyes. It's not as bright as the spotlight but it'll do. "NCIS."

"Oh Geez."

A glance at her escort who virtually has 'Bouncer' tattooed on his forehead assures her she has their full attention. "I need to know about this man."

Pit Boss shakes his head. "I don't look at the guys."

No surprise, the guy probably spends most of his time in here interviewing and trying out candidates and cares only that the money is flowing with the drinks. She looks to the Muscle. "How about you?"

"Babe, if a guy's not making trouble I don't look much at him either, not with such fresh pussy as we have."

Her Sessions haven't been adequate for this. She pushes the folder back into her pocket, steps up with the picture until she's head to chest with the guy, channels Gibbs with her best glare and drops her shields for good measure. "I am not 'Babe'. I am not 'Pussy'. I've shot seven perps in the past year and _almost_ got suspended for it. I am the worst bitch you will ever meet." She lets a little of the force that had compelled her to take the Anger Management program flow between them, enough to get a straight answer. "I want to talk to someone who knows this guy."

It's not one she likes but she had considered it inevitable. The only ones who do pay any attention to the men she needs to have brought in here one at a time during their off-table moments.

As her tall escort steps out to collect the first of the woman _who had better be clothed_ , Musique is urging all the men in the outer room to 'push, push in the bush'.

What was Lesson 6 again?


	11. Not An Accident

Chapter Eleven  
Not An Accident

Gibbs strides into the bullpen and to his desk. 1930 has come and gone too long ago and it took the last of his patience with it. "Do you have the background on Gil Kingman?"

Even though he knows it's a mistake, Tim can only turn a lost look to him.

"Simon Ramjanian's story checks out," he growls. "Santillo's too short, so's Ramjanian. Kingman was targeted. What do you _have_?"

McGee types as quickly as he can on his keyboard, then Ellie steps over to the plasma screen and uses the remote control to bring up an image of Lieutenant Commander Kingman's official Navy photo.

"Married 1987, no children. Commissioned a Lieutenant Commander 2012, no deployment. He spent most of his career in Gulfport, the NRL, the Pentagon and so forth. Few black marks against him; _I_ have more black marks than he does." She notices her partners' interest. "Not… that… I have any really black marks…." She looks to Tim. "Is this a time to pop up a picture of the New Year's Eve party?"

"Not if you want to make it to Columbus Day," Gibbs warns. That party had opened one of their most torturous cases and he could do without any reminder. He knows McGee can.

"Okay. Bottom line, if anyone wanted to kill this guy, I can't find a Naval motive."

"What about private life?"

"Wife works for a medium level Investment Firm, Abrams, Ulsidan and LeBeau," Bishop says. "I'm comparing their assets with their registered income but nothing pops out. Their social life touches on the Navy and the K of C. No children as I said. He's into water sports, go figure; sailing and so forth, basically goes down to the Marina, takes out the sailboat and fishes without a hook."

"What does the wife do while he keeps his line wet?" He doesn't care for the thought behind her eyes or the incipient smile that tugs at her lips but she's smart enough to keep her lips closed except to admit

"I haven't found anything of note. If I were trying to track these two on radar, I'd go out back and chuck a few rocks past the dish just so I can get a blip."

xxx

"We think your husband's death wasn't an accident," Gibbs tells Arlene Kingman in her living room a half hour later. Seated beside Bishop, he watches for the reaction to his announcement.

Unlike this morning, her parents and co-worker aren't here. The early Autumn sun has set some time ago but, also unlike this morning, Kingman is more worn. That she has had a trying day is evident and he regrets having to add to that. His tone is solicitous and sympathetic, but there is little he can offer to ease her hardship.

In fact, he must make it worse.

"What do you mean 'wasn't an accident'? He got hit by a car."

Ellie tries her hand. "We believe Lieutenant Comm– that your husband was targeted."

"He stepped in front of a car," she says as though she's repeated the words all day. Perhaps she has.

"Is there any reason you can think of why anyone would want your husband dead?"

Gibbs had been seeking this point all day with the Captain, the Yeoman, the ambitious Assistant though he hadn't mentioned to her that the man is dead, the gag order had gone out. He'd tried with everybody in fact and is still at a loss for the logic. The Zumwalt Project is over, the ship on hold while every inch of it and its sister vessels is microscoped and Kingman's work is extended in reviewing everything that has happened over the past several months. He has no Orders for a future assignment. Not even his CO knows what he'll assign the man to, so he can't be targeted to prevent him from doing anything.

The Millennium had been a disaster, the worst in US Naval history but if someone has targeted Kingman for revenge for lives lost it's an unlikely scenario. Kingman's involvement had been hardware while it was the software of the warship that had been compromised. Men and women of too many ranks have fallen in the aftermath, but Kingman had borne no personal blame.

Excluding then the Naval aspect, at least in so far as his job is concerned, they are forced to consider other areas for motive.

"Did your husband have any enemies?"

"Enemies? I don't understand. A car –."

"Mrs. Kingman," Ellie tries, "we believe someone intentionally killed your husband, someone who deliberately ran him down." She still hates this theory and voicing it again makes her dislike it more.

"We didn't even know we'd be going out. You mean someone _hunted_ Gil, lay in wait for him?"

That's the crux of her detestation. How, on a night with no trip planned, did a driver, out of sight, travel at 60+ on a road described as having no traffic and nail the man at the right second? She has never hated a theory more.

"Who was it who made the decision to go out?"

"Gil. I was tired but neither of us could sleep. But you're saying someone _waited_ for him to step off that curb?"

Gibbs has had enough. "The facts point that way." That's why he hates them.

"But _why_? Why would anyone do that?"

x

" _Did_ your husband have any enemies?" He will keep returning to this until he has an answer or has played it out.

"I don't know. I don't think so. Everybody liked Gil."

Not everybody. "Did he have much activity outside of the Navy?"

"No. Neither of us do. Oh, we go places, we're in the K of C, Saint Bonaventure Council 16127, I'm a Columbiette and there are always activities; day trips particularly in spring and summer, dances and so forth, but neither of us are – _were_ – active in it. We never held an office or were on any committee, and he and I went to meetings very rarely.

"Otherwise, if he or I were interested in something the other wasn't, we'd just go and meet up later. But the average evening we spent at home. We'd watch TV, I like 'Bull', something about reading people to predict their actions…

"But no, we have no enemies. We're too dull for anything like that."

"Did you have people over today?" Ellie asks rather than look at the many mismatched chairs lining the walls.

"Earlier this evening; some of the neighbors, some Columbiettes, some friends, mom and dad; I didn't want to be alone."

"Of course."

"Have you noticed recently," Gibbs asks, "anyone or anything unusual? Someone in the area who looks like they don't belong?"

"No. I don't really look at such things that closely. Now I wish I had."

"Have there been any changes to your husband, his manner, his behavior, his habits?"

"Not a thing." She looks out to the darkness beyond the front drapes. "But please, I'm very tired. Could we continue this some other time?"

"Of course. Sorry, ma'am."

There comes a point where every investigation must give way to the clock. Tomorrow is a new day and he intends to make it a progressive one.

xx

Over two hours later Arlene Kingman is watching the late night news, finger ready on the remote control should a report about Gil come up. Whatever anyone intends to say she doesn't believe she can endure hearing it.

She cannot go upstairs, cannot bear the thought of that empty bed, never wants to lay in it again.

Knock at the front door. Reporters, come to make her miserable life worse?

Or it may be a friend, someone coming to offer condolences. Without calling first? At quarter after eleven? Later? But the lights are on; there's no point in pretending. And it might be an unthinking friend.

She steps to the door. "Who is it?"

A knock. Not a friend. A reporter? She'll show the bastard a miserable night. She opens the door.

She starts to see the flash. She doesn't hear the bang.

She starts to feel the sting on her forehead. She begins to feel the bullet punch through the front of her skull, but doesn't feel that and the bones tear a tunnel through her brain.

She doesn't feel the back of her skull shatter and blow a wide hole out from under her hair.

She never feels herself tilt backward, nor slam onto the white shag carpet.


	12. Detour

Chapter Twelve  
Detour

Gibbs has stood up from his couch when the alarm went off at 5:00 and his eyes feel like they should be pried open when his cell phone, on his dining room table, yells for his attention with the theme from 'Dragnet'. It's one of DiNozzo's Easter Eggs; he'd loaded the phone with every number Gibbs could possibly use, which had been a nice though completely wasted gesture. He never uses the Contacts list, prefers to memorize important numbers, and he could have deleted the list but with DiNozzo gone it didn't seem quite right. Therefore he kept the thing, only to discover that his former SFA had booby-trapped the device with distinctive tones for the incoming calls which he gets infrequently. Last week Sheriff Knox from Maryland had come onto his phone with the theme from 'McCloud'. He will be days putting the system right unless he 1: has McGee do a purge and set everything to the basic ringer or 2: throws the unit through a wall.

Today he is leaning toward choice 2.

But when he sees the name displayed on the screen, he's forced to admit DiNozzo's choices are not all bad, though he really needs his first coffee to get through this.

"What've you got, Carp?" he asks, padding toward the kitchen. Yesterday the partner Clifford Scott had called to the phone so it had simply rung, leaving the Easter egg for this morning. 'Thank you, DiNozzo.'

"Lost another one to Nickis," is Metro Homicide Detective Lieutenant Jeffrey Carpenter's frequently used complaint when he and Scott have rolled on a call only to discover it's Navy or Marine related.

x

"Don't have time for another." He's sure Mulvany from Dispatch already has this, or should soon, and is already summoning another Alpha shift SSA, but –

"You have time for this. Homicide took one in Shaw, we're with Harry and Martha Arhyn. Their daughter–."

"Arlene Kingman," he says as he halts half through a reach for the coffee pot. He'd predicted this, rather his gut had, when he'd seen Carpenter's name. Yesterday the parents had called 911.

"Took one in the face at her front door. We'd never made it to the house when we rolled up on the intersection night before last so when we recognized the wife we knew it's your potato. Again."

"Can't drop it." And with that phrasing, Carpenter and his partner must be on the overnight and not pleased to get the mis-pass and to be unable to drop it until Gibbs arrives to formally take it from him. Goodbye coffee. "But we were there yesterday, the parents know to call NCIS."

"Mother said you weren't working fast enough."

"Did she happen to mention Insurance?"

"Matter of fact, she did. You coming?"

"Oh, we're gonna talk."

He slaps the phone closed and wonders how many detours this case is going to have.

At least his favorite diner is on the way. Elaine always has a morning cup prepared when he pulls into the lot.

xxx

Gibbs doesn't wait until his entire team is assembled; Eleanor Bishop is physically the closest until his agents finish their bout of musical residences and so she reaches the address only two minutes after he does. Today is McGee's move but the wife is supervising that so he had better be on time. He and Bishop leave their cars outside the perimeter, bypass the fleet of police and other emergency vehicles and ascend the steps to the house's second floor. The dawn light has touched the building's top floor but he has his extra large so he can face the day.

It's dreadfully difficult to avoid the crime scene; Arlene Kingman's body lays immediately beyond the arc of the inward opening door, her feet closest, her head further toward the fish tank across the room, blood and (somewhat more nauseating before coffee) detritus consisting of solid matter of varying density ranged beyond.

There's a uniformed MPDC officer within the doorway so he lets Bishop sign them both in while he takes a careful step left and makes a wide arc to Detective Lieutenant Jeffrey Carpenter. The tall, sandy haired man is failing the first stages of an equally sandy mustache that makes him look like someone poured shakers of pepper and salt along his lip and the blue suit shows signs of long and hard wear. Carpenter has already used up his catch phrase between them, so he greets him with an open notepad.

"This time, as soon as we saw the place and took the initial statement, such as it is, I called you. We didn't do more than hold the scene."

Gibbs doesn't have to have it defined; they did nothing so they need do nothing. "So give it to me and get some rest."

"Already snoring." He tears out three pages from the scrap notepad, hands them to him and calls a halt to his fellows' work.

Leaving Bishop to hold the door and make sure none of the agents soon to arrive step into the scene before they realize it, he heads through and into the kitchen.

x

Within that sanctum Martha and Harry wait with the last of the uniformed MPDC Officers and her expression when she turns telegraphs that she can't give up her charges quickly enough. Martha Arhyn's greeting is somewhat more vocal.

"See what your futzing around has cost! Not bad enough when our son-in-law dies, you bastards sit on your asses and let our daughter get murdered too!"

Yesterday Harry Arhyn had been a voice of reason and moderation; Gibbs has no illusion this time will be similar. "Just what have you been doing to stop this?"

Gibbs cannot hold this rage against them, but by the same he wishes he'd summoned McGee's wife as well. Normally he would not consider any such thing, but neither parent is going to be able to provide much information in their present state.

"When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?"

"Ten minutes after you did," Harry declares, "and a fat lot of good you were."

"Couldn't even tell that that bastard wasn't done killing."

He has no counter that would help. Yesterday their focus had been upon who wanted Lt. Commander Gilbert Kingman dead and the Investigation had covered his Naval activities and who might have a motive, and they'd begun making progress by negatives. Now they have two new questions, each one equally broad: had both Kingmans been targeted or had they, and the driver, each missed the mark and Arlene Kingman had been the true target?

"Investigation's just started."

"What the hell does that mean?" Harry demands.

Perhaps these people have grown used to the entertainment programs where murders are wrapped up in Act Four but unfortunately for them NCIS is not a television show.

Abby is fond of reminding him 'you can't rush science', to which he would reply with his own version - should it be a Rule? - but he can appreciate their distress. It is sad to lose a son-in-law, far worse a daughter.

xx

Despite the fact that he could have directed Bishop at any time to take the task, Gibbs had decided to spend the first encounter with the parents because he wanted her on evidence gathering, so it was with some surprise that he is drawn out to the living room by the inarticulate scream of a soul being dragged down into Hell.

When he pushes through the swinging door with the frosted stained glass decorative window he sees that his entire team has arrived plus Sam Passalino. He's standing framed in the doorway with Special Agent Mary Frederick partially behind him. She had driven the MCR truck from Headquarters and had evidently been put to work on the perimeter.

"I'm sorry, Agent McGee, I _couldn't_ keep him out." Since Passalino tops Frederick by a foot, he can easily picture the encounter. However, Frederick should still have kept him out by any means necessary, even it were to have been calling out the other agents.

Gibbs' crossing of the room to the shocked man and embarrassed agent puts him within inches of Arlene Kingman's feet. "What are you doing here?"

"I, er, came… to…."

"She's not going to work." The man had known this perfectly well yesterday, had no reason to come for their morning commute. He might have been milder in his confrontation, _might_ , but Passalino had given that up when he'd broken in on the crime scene.

"I know. I… came to… to see if she was okay… if she needed anything."

The glare he gives to Frederick says two things: 'take him out of here' and 'I will deal with you later'.

What he says aloud is "Downstairs," and she had better understand that he wants her to hold the shattered man down in the street until he can deal with him.

"Yes, sir." She tugs on his arm and this time Passalino's willing to be directed. Gibbs doesn't lock the door; first, he can't touch it with ungloved hands and second, he intends to put the fear of God so deeply into Frederick that if anyone short of the Deity passes that door she will need His intervention.

x

He scans the large room; McGee and Palmer are at the opposite wall by a hole punched over the extra large aquarium, McGee with the large Crime Scene Camera, Palmer recording on a notepad the details of every exposure. Bishop is marking the locations of every bit of bloody detritus that had fallen behind the woman, placing the numbered triangular yellow signs upon the white shag carpet and Ducky and Jimmy have charge of the body which they crouch on either side of. He knows the photographs have moved from establishing wide shots that spiraled in to the body and now they deal with the fine points while what interests him at the moment is "Duck?"

"The wound, as you can see, pierces the nasion, the intersection of the frontal and the two nasal bones, yet it was delivered at an upward angle so that it appears to have exited in the middle of the parietal bone, though x-rays will provide better detail."

"Killer was shorter than she was," Ellie says.

"Draw no conclusions on that, Agent Bishop," Ducky retorts. "We may say only that the wound indicates an upward angle, therefore the gun may have been at lower than eye level when it was fired. However, since the impact of the bullet would drive the head backward, some portion of that angle may be from the initial impact, giving the illusion of an upward trajectory. We will not be able to confirm nor to refute this until we have done our autopsy. Our job is to determine what the bullet did while it was passing through her. We, however, determine neither from whence it came or to where it went, merely the path it has taken and the specific damage which it did."

x

"Probie?" McGee calls from by the huge, bubbling aquarium, but when no one moves Michelle looks to Bishop.

"He means you, Ellie."

"Oh. I knew that," she says as she comes up between them, conscious of Gibbs' eyes on the back of her head. "Yes?"

"Ducky said that the shot came at an upward angle, yet Arlene Kingman is five foot eight. The bullet hole is five feet, seven inches off the floor and yet it traveled only seven feet. Why is that?"

"Beeee-cause its velocity was slowed by going through two layers of bone."

"But the drop off is an inch and yet even when one of the bullets from our Sigs goes through a skull there would not be such a drop off after seven feet. What does that tell you?" For emphasis he taps beside the hole with his fingernail.

"One of two things."

"Only two?"

"Okay, three or more. It's a small caliber, lesser powered shell or it really was fired from below."

"Let's stick with the first," he says, having noted the entry wound, "What kind of bullet?"

She looks more closely at the hole. She's had plenty of time to study the entry wound. "A .22."

He turns on her, his tone incisive and demanding. "Come on. A .22? Look at that hole. That's larger than a .34, maybe even a .357."

She shakes her head and her tone is definite. "No, not a .34 or anything larger, there would be far less drop off. The bullet was blunted by going through her skull, so it punched through in a wider area. There's a saying, 'a high calibur bullet goes in like a dime and comes out like a cash register.'"

"Hm! I'll have to use that. And I think you're right. And when we pry it out of the wall we'll find it _is_ a .22."

"Oh no no no, this one you're not catching me on. I may be an Intelligence Analyst but I have enough intelligence to know you do not _pry_ a bullet out of the wall, you cut a hole," she describes a surrounding circle, "out of the wall, take it with us and _Abby_ gets it out and analyzes the lands and grooves."

"And the drill to make that hole?"

"Issssss in the truck. Which I shall get. Right now."

"Hop to it, Probie."

x

When she carefully slips past the body and out the door Michelle looks up to her partner. "You enjoyed that - too much."

"One of the responsibilities of a Senior Field Agent is to train the other members of the team."

"I thought you didn't like 'Probie'."

"Being on the receiving end for a decade, not so much. Saying it, now that's different."

She is still quite mad at him, he's not her favorite partner right now, which directs most of her sharpness. She'd told Jimmy nothing of their disagreement of yesterday morning, the pleasures of unpacking and organizing her new house (her new house, how wonderful that sounds!) overwhelming all else. But this morning she is with McGee again and has more reasons to be annoyed, and the unresolved tensions of yesterday hang heavily upon her. "There are some lessons from Special Agent DiNozzo that shouldn't be learned."

"What does that mean?"

"She won't be a Probationary Agent forever and you're a married man." This one is enough to halt even those who had been actively ignoring the banter, particularly her own husband.

"What does that have to – ?"

"You may like having two women under you but it's not always such a good position."

The hurried return of said Probationary Agent halts this part of the conversation but Michelle hopes she's made her warning clear. If not, the man before her deserves everything he gets. She is glad that, after so long, she's been able to leave the sobriquet of 'probette' behind.

"Okay," Gibbs cuts in from behind her, "does someone have it in for both Kingmans, one of them or is Arlene Kingman an inconvenient witness? Talk to me."

Five seconds of dead silence.

"I meant _now_."

xx

Twenty minutes later Gibbs steps outside, leaving McGee in charge of the indoor investigation.

Harry and Martha Arhyn had not been pleased when the sound of the large bore drill brought them from the kitchen and far less so at the two inch wide hole drilled over the fish tank. The drill is a long hollow bore and when Tim checks the end of the plug the drill has removed the entire thickness of the dry wall and yet the end is not broken; the bullet is within. Mrs. Arhyn had been incensed that the so-called 'investigators' had decided to do a change of career into carpentry or, more accurately, house wrecking.

Gibbs has introduced Bishop to the next phase of her training until their work was finished. It will not be the end of Bishop's labors with the bereaved parents, for she will have to join them in their own home to collect such properties related to the Kingmans as may or may not be relevant, and he considers the experience useful training for the woman to grow into a well rounded NCIS Agent or else a resumed CIA Intelligence Analyst.

At the garage entrance where Agent Mary Frederick has detained Sam Passalino the man has barely recovered. By the time Gibbs reaches the bottom of the steps Passalino wipes his eyes and seems ready with an intelligible answer.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to check on Arlene. I had some time before work." He checks his watch. If he had been counting upon keeping his improved 'on time' record, Gibbs thinks he can kiss it goodbye. Man's own fault.

"You didn't call?"

"I called, but she's a heavy sleeper and I figured she might even have taken sleeping pills."

"She does that?"

The man trembles on the verge of a break. Though he doesn't cry he most evidently had, but for the moment his control holds much like a dam overflowing its spillways.

"Does she?"

"I don't know. She never mentioned having trouble sleeping."

"Never?" According to Passalino they have traveled forth and back between homes and work for nearly a year since the Transit strike. That is a lot of time to talk.

"Not that she ever mentioned."

"Other than Tuesday night."

"I guess so."

x

"Where were you that night?" Criminals often return to the scene to, by their presence, establish an alibi or to gather information and though not a suspect he has returned. Additionally, Elly Bishop had asked the same establishing question so he should say

"At home. Asleep."

"Alone?"

"I haven't slept alone in fourteen years."

Well, his answer to Bishop had been 'I'm married' but Gibbs hopes it means the same thing. He won't pursue it further because he doesn't want the man picking a sense that he is a potential subject. He doesn't want Passalino to realize the conversation is being compared to one he'd had with the friendly woman, not until he's had the chance to corroborate or to refute what has already been said. Plus, the hunt for persons of interest has recently begun and had netted two subjects that Gibbs has reasons to doubt.

If he is going to look at the deaths of Gilbert and Arlene Kingman as being related, he needs someone with links to and motives for killing both.

And he still has no proof to dispute the theory that Gilbert's was the accidental death and Arlene, having taken a bullet to the face, was the intended victim.


	13. Quadrangle of Death

Chapter Thirteen  
Quadrangle of Death

While a horrifically nosey and cooperative (to the Press) neighbor had broken Gibbs' intent to judge people's reactions to the death of Gilbert Kingman long before he'd decided upon that course, no one had called the media about Adele Kingman's murder. Therefore, having told Special Agent Mary Frederick to delay Sam Passalino with minutiae, a series of questions for exactly twenty minutes, then to drive the MCR truck back to Headquarters, he sends McGee and Palmer back to the Pentagon while he and Bishop proceed to Abrams, Ulsidan and LeBeau Investments. It turns out to be smaller than they'd expected.

The office, a large one room facility looking out at the corner of South Dakota and Farragut NE is glass walls on the block's corner letting in plenty of light. The entrance is on the point of the corner, much like the DiNozzo, now the McGee apartment. The interior is divided into rows of cubicles with one to two chairs before each desk. When seated with clients each Investment Manager would have privacy within the three beige walls but most people need only stand to have conversations over partitions as high as the bullpen's.

On the left wall above the long windows are three strips of black on white light displays that run the length of the room which spell out stock designations and current standings. The reports are staggered by thirds so no one need wait the figurative forever for their business of interest to run.

All of this Gibbs and Bishop learn before approaching the glass door and a brief inquiry with the woman seated at the large desk six feet in brings Mr. Thomas Quade to the front.

Quade is five eleven with expensively styled hair and gleaming teeth and his crisp white shirt, navy tie, trousers and vest hint at a complete suit that could top four figures, but if you purport to make wealth for your clients you must project being well accustomed to having it. Certainly the diamond tie pin cost more than Gibbs would pay.

"May I help you?"

Ignoring his tone which says 'How much money can we make for us and you, in that order?', Gibbs and Bishop present Shields and IDs rather than calling cards. "We need to speak to one of the owners."

"Messers Abrams, Ulsidan and LeBeau are not in but I could call them. I'm the Office Manager, perhaps I would do?"

'For now' Gibbs thinks. "Is there someplace we could talk?"

Privately need not be said and the agents are not surprised when Quade leads them to a cubicle in the far right corner. This one is offset 45 degrees, putting the corner behind Quade, window to his left to give him suitable light while at the same time providing a diagonal view of the entire room. When Gibbs and Bishop are seated before the mahogany desk rather than one of Formica and metal their backs are to said room, not a favored position but Gibbs will hold his objection - for the moment.

He's confident he'll soon have plenty to see. The clock is ticking on Mary Frederick's assignment.

x

"Is this your only facility?"

"For now. Messers Ulsidan and LeBeau are looking into expanding into an office in West Virginia, but that's a bit down the road."

"And Mrs. Adele Kingman works here?"

"Yes, she does. We were all distressed to hear what happened to her husband night before last."

"How did you find out?"

"Sam Passalino told us when he got in. Said not to expect her for a while. I called yesterday afternoon, so did some of the others, to express our condolences. She's taking a Bereavement Leave."

"How long is that?"

He shrugs. "Three weeks. If she needs more we can work something out."

"Anyone call today, or go see her?"

"Not that I know of. Someone might have. I can ask. I was going to tomorrow but I don't want to crowd her by calling two days in a row. I imagine she has her hands full with preparations for her husband's funeral."

"Did you know him?"

"Not really. We had an office party midway between Chanukah and Christmas; we have a staff of 42 and most are married, some brought dates. To tell you the truth, nine months later now I can't pick him out of a crowd."

"Has Mrs. Kingman lost any money or accounts recently?"

He looks surprised at the segue but "We'd love to be perfect and for all our Clients to make fortunes but of course that never happens. These are Investments and we're up front with our Clients when they come aboard. We put their money where they want it, but keep our ears to the ground. Those boards show every stock traded on Dow, Nasdaq and S&P and we advise our Clients as best we can. However, if after that a Client is determined to put his money into a risky venture we'll put it there."

"Any big losers?"

x

"Wait a minute. Do you think what happened to Arlene's husband has something to do with her Investments?"

"Just covering all the bases."

After his first unguarded word Quade looks to Bishop. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"That's okay."

"If it will help I will give you what access I legally can, but I can tell you that if there were any who suffered a major loss I would have known it. I spend most Fridays reviewing everyone's reports and things have been pretty steady. Most of our Clients have been with us for years. The market rises and falls, every time the President, Congress, Senate or whatever does something there's a rise or fall. Most people have experienced the Market; it drops 750 in April, goes up 800 in May, June it's down 340 and July up 460. Right now we're in an upswing. Most people are happy if they have a thousand in January and fourteen hundred by New Year's. But I'll look and if anything jumps out I'll give you a call."

"Thank you." He hands him a card. With the lack of direction of Gilbert's case coupled with the directness of Arlene's death, it is looking more likely that they may have begun this Investigation on the wrong path.

x

"What Insurance do the Kingmans have?"

"If you need to know that I'd have to have you talk to Barbara, Barbara Fingue, she handles HR. You need it?"

"Yes." The mother, Martha Arhyn, had been very interested in Gilbert's coverage and it is common for spouses to insure one another. He'd learned yesterday that Gilbert had a $30,000 Navy policy on Arlene. With each having died within twenty hours, one suspiciously and the other leaving no doubt at all, he doesn't envy the adjuster or the executors.

An intercom call brings a tall brunette to the entrance. "Yes, I looked that up for her yesterday. They're each covered, she for 100, her late husband for 75, the maximum based on her hundred, and they're each others' beneficiaries."

"When did you look that up?"

"Yesterday morning. It was her mother who called, a Mrs. Ahern, but I couldn't tell her anything, she's not on the account. She put Arlene on and we covered the details."

"How did she sound?"

"How I expected, frazzled and freaked."

"What time was this?"

"I'd barely gotten in, about five or ten after nine."

Neither Gibbs nor Bishop glance at each other. This was extremely soon after they'd left.

x

When the woman is gone, Gibbs returns his attention to Quade. "I understand from Mr. Passalino that he and Mrs. Kingman travel together."

"Every day. They come in like clockwork, every morning the door opens promptly at nine. You know, one day Ted Corbett pushed the clock over there," they turn to the large one on the far wall, left of the entry "twenty minutes ahead and Arlene threw a fit. She is a schedule keeper, everything has to be so precise. I had to lay into Ted just to calm her down."

"So she's nine to five."

"Her and Sam, but it's nine to four-thirty. She insists upon being home before her husband arrives. I understand he's a stickler, or was, always wants her to be there when he gets in."

Gibbs checks his watch. He'd told Special Agent Mary Frederick to delay Sam Passalino, to go over every bit of information the man can provide, a far more detailed debriefing than Bishop had obtained for exactly twenty minutes. Frederick is to treat him as though he is not a suspect and in twenty minutes time to cut the man loose.

When he gets in here he'll have a story to tell.

Time should be up right... about... The front door opens behind them and a loud voice fills to room. "EVERYBODY DROP WHAT YOU'RE DOING! LISTEN UP!"

Quade barely contains his outrage at the familiar voice's uncommon yell but as he steps past the agents Gibbs and Bishop stand, using the angled partition for cover. They're not as concerned about Passalino as at watching the many faces in the room.

"ARLENE IS DEAD!" Not the usual way to announce a co-worker's passing but it guarantees Passalino has the room and he can continue somewhat more quietly. "Someone shot her. The police grilled me all morning." It's an exaggeration, and somewhat dramatic, but to Gibbs it's a good opening. The faces he and Bishop see tell of surprise edging predictably toward sorrow and grief.

"Why you?" a man asks.

"I found her body."

"What happened?" a woman demands.

"SOMEONE SHOT HER IN THE FACE!"

Shock and sorrow highlight the emotions the Investigators can read but no foreknowledge or guilt can they discern. Quade turns to look at them but they give very experienced blank faces.

"When did this happen?" another man asks.

"I TOLD YOU! LAST NIGHT!" He breaks and several of the closest approach and surround him in a knot of commiseration.

For more and more of the room surprise has given way to mounting grief. Gibbs, satisfied with what he has read, steps out to the office manager. Bishop follows in silence. "We have to get out there. We'll be back."

"Of course," is the vague auto-response.

xx

When they are in Gibbs' car he turns to Ellie "Find me a hotel or motel between Kingman's place and here."

For an instant Ellie's expression is a mingling of surprise and apprehension before she realizes the purpose. "Hot sheet hotels, two hours each morning."

"That'll do." Passalino has claimed he works 7-3 whereas Arlene supposedly works 8-4, so he picks her up at 6. That leaves just shy of three hours every morning.

xxx

When Tim and Michelle return to Kingman's office PO1 Celeste April is in the outer office at her paper covered desk and the lovely redhead looks frazzled. She doesn't so much as put the phone's receiver down as shoves it into the cradle.

" _Yes_. Oh!" she exclaims, her eyes showing her recognition, at least of their caps and jackets. It has been Gibbs and Bishop yesterday. "Sorry, these phones are driving me out of my mind. Everyone's talking about the Commander and I can't hear any of it so I have to keep cutting them off."

"What about the Commander?" Tim asks. With the man being dead he's sure there are a lot of calls and situations. The head of a Department does not die without a major shake-up.

"I don't know. I _can't_ know. The Captain instituted a Condition Epsilon, no one is supposed to listen to News, discuss anything outside his or her jobs." That was the original plan, to control news and discussion about the death, but it has been a day since the others were here.

Publicly the plan had been a bust but "I don't know where he _is_ , what he's _doing_ , what _anyone_ is doing. My job is to run interference and make sure that in this Department Epsilon is observed or it's my ass. I got out of here twenty two hundred, I didn't even turn on the radio, went to sleep and haven't spoken to anyone all morning except to say 'I haven't seen him' and hang up."

Michelle, on his right, looks up to him. "Gibbs'd love this."

"What? Look, I really, _really_ do not have time to talk. Lieutenant Commander Kingman will be in - sometime - and he'll answer all your questions. I –."

"He's dead."

x

It's been a long time since McGee has seen someone go from human to a statue but April does it. Then she looks up very slowly from the papers that litter her desk. "What?"

"He was killed night before last. Hit and run near his home."

Celeste April's face goes as white as her uniform blouse and her voice is empty breath. " _No_!"

"I'm really sorry. He's dead."

April as slowly rises to her feet, shaking more violently by the moment, breath fast and hard.

He's never been sure if Gibbs had invented the 'sledgehammer between the eyes' technique or whether he'd perfected it, but he's often known it to be very effective and it looks to be particularly so now. "Ms. –."

It's not a scream, not a screech, it's the long lung bursting sound of someone's organs being ripped through her flesh.

Halfway through the door behind them crashes open, white and blue uniforms fill the entry but the agents stop the rush as April runs empty of breath but the scream doesn't end, the ripped soul destroyed in silence. She falls onto the desk, collapses to the floor and each breath comes in wailing and shrieks.

McGee, sure the other men and women will not approach further, signals to Michelle and she goes around the desk. She kneels and gathers the sobbing, shrieking officer in her arms.

xxx

Occasionally for Gibbs some part of an investigation goes really well and this time it's in the first motel on the reverse course, the Day's Inn where the desk clerk recognizes two Drivers' Licenses downloaded yesterday to each of the agents' PDAs.

"How often do they come?" Gibbs asks.

"They're booked month-to-month. They're quiet but Sue from Housekeeping has to clean up every day after check-out time. She goes through the whole hotel and Mr. and Mrs. Passalino have _come_ and gone every day."

"Mr. and Mrs.?"

He grants the point but "Ain't none of my business. They pay first of every month, never damage anything, never any noise, no drugs or empty bottles; I wish all our guests were so good."

xxx

Under Michelle Palmer's efforts Celeste April's screams, if not her hysterical crying, have quieted.

Tim McGee believes he has never known anyone so devastated over a death and he has seen the consequences of more deaths than he wants to remember. It's a relief to hear his phone ring and he pulls the vibrating device from his belt.

The conversation is not long, exchanges with Gibbs never are. "Got it, boss." When Michelle looks up, her eyes clearing the desktop and he signals her to get the woman up and back into her chair but it's hopeless. The destroyed woman cannot be moved from the floor. April continues her violent sobbing and McGee mulls over the choice of slapping reason back into her or asking Palmer to use her talents to calm her.

But he'd made the mistake yesterday of asking his partner to use her special skills on a case and is not anxious to try that again.

W. W. G. D.?

He steps to the desk, places both hands flat upon the covering of papers, leans in close.

" _ **HEY**_!" reverberates off the walls, his shout almost as loud as her original shriek and April's head rockets up, utter shock on her face.

'No wonder Gibbs does that. That felt good. I must try it more often.' "That's enough, Petty Officer." He glances back at his partner who puts her hand over her heart, miming her own shock. Turning back he glares into April's wide eyes.

"I've had bosses that I really liked and I was upset when things happened to them but this is over the top."

April manages only five seconds before collapsing into more grief, sobbing in Michelle's arms. Tim is ready to break her again when he sees something in his partner's eyes.

x

"I know, honey. I know," she says, stroking the young woman's red locks. "What was the signal, when he left Washington without notice?"

Tim is astounded to see the woman's nod. Rule #64 is deeply in play in this case: 'Nothing is ever what it seems.'

"He's in – He's in Gulfport - or the NRL if he's not here. He always – tells me where. But if not – if not, he – he was on – Classified duty – so I was to say. Then – then last ni – night – last night –."

"You were to kill Mrs. Kingman."

Again that broken nod. "So he couldn't tell - even the C.O. - where he was. He – he was – to go to his – his brother. He'd say he was there – all night."

Tim sees where a dozen things could go wrong, so many that Gemcity would never draft such a plot.

So much _had_ gone wrong.

xxx

Gibbs puts his yellow and black Hemi in drive but his cell phone has other ideas and that is to play 'Weird Science' at him.

'Thank you so much, DiNozzo,' he thinks while glaring Bishop out of a giggle. It's Abby's cell phone rather than the lab number, which is why this egg had taken so long to hatch. McGee is going to reset his phone to the manufacturer specs as soon as they meet in the Bullpen. "What do you have, Abs?"

/It's not what I have, Gibbs, it's what I _want_./

"Okay, what do you want?"

/Medium rare steak a half inch thick, smothered in butter, mushrooms and onions, corn and mashed potatoes with chives, red wine from 1950 or earlier with a 'Caf-Pow!' chaser, strawberry cheesecake–/

"You're phoning in a _dinner order_?" Is this what comes from excluding her from back of the head wake-up calls for all these years?

/I deserve a good one./

"No argument there."

/For solving the Gilbert Kingman murder./

"What did you find?"

/Oh no, this one I'm telling you over dinner at La Chateau Julienne./

"Abi _gail_."

/All right, I can accept a rain check./

"Do this right now, I'll throw in a violinist to serenade us at the table."

/Sammy?/

"Don't push your luck."

/Oh well. Listen because these satellite roaming charges are just killing your time./

"Unlimited, unlike my patience."

/At least you have a cell phone, unlike Arlene Kingman who reported hers lost by using a 'Find My Device' app on her laptop. It gives a map on her laptop a real time blip of exactly where, to the foot, it is./

Yes, she deserves that dinner. "So if that dirtbag has the laptop next to him in the front seat–,"

/He can track her throughout the service area, see exactly where she is and know exactly when she reaches that corner./

"Someone like the guy who hot sheets her every morning from 6:30 to 8:30."

/Cool./

xxx

With Gibbs in I1 with Sam Passalino from Abrams, Ulsidan and Lebeau (that arrest had been the dramatic dénouement to the announcement so short ago) and Bishop with Celeste April in I2, it is a veritable race to see who is wrung out to dry first. The smart money is on Gibbs but Michelle in O2 does not want to count out her new partner. But this whole case is the worst application of her Rule #12: 'You can trust an enemy to act against you but only a friend can betray you.'

The door opens behind her and when she looks back it's to see Jennifer Shepherd and Abby Sciuto enter the dark chamber. Abby is surprise enough but she can count on one hand the number of times she's known Shepherd to view an Interrogation and still have some digits left.

/You were in love with Commander Kingman,/ filters through the speaker.

/Forever. We couldn't do anything in the Pentagon, but elsewhere we could. We'd get together at the Marina. His wife never knew. She never even knew that we were doing it./

/Why not get a divorce?/

/She was so faithful he didn't want to hurt her./

The woman was so faithful to her husband that she was wearing holes in the sheets at the Day's Inn while he was rowing this woman's boat.

/Didn't want to hurt her./ It sounds like if Bishop says it aloud it'll make some kind of sense. It doesn't.

/No./

/So he arranged to kill her./

/Through the head. She was dead before she could feel pain./

x

Shepherd reaches out and throws the switch, silences the woman. She doesn't even want to check this claim with Ducky – ever. She just wants this woman gone.

"This so reminds me," Abby says, "of that Grand Opening Party."

"What?" Michelle has fallen off the train at that segue.

"Grand Opening of Haunted Hill?" Each stares at her, hardly believing she's making the obscure point. The women had spent a night in a recreation of the Ghost House from the Vincent Price classic film 'House on Haunted Hill'. Abby had been the mistress of costumes and had stepped out of her signature black to portray Wanda Maximoff, the Avengers' Scarlet Witch but had trapped Jennifer as Elvira {admittedly she has the necessary accoutrements in ample supply) while Michelle had personified Vampirella, the width of whose straps neither of her friends had taken a ruler to. Neither Shepherd nor Palmer have decided if they forgive the Goth scientist.

"You are kidding me," Michelle declares.

Shepherd challenges her to provide "In what way does this remind you of that night?"

Abby's imitation of Price's penultimate revelation is passable.

"'It's a pity you didn't know, when you started your game of murder, that I was playing too'."

Next Episode: 'Untitled.' The list of attempted murder suspects tops 21 and they've only addressed a single motive.


End file.
